


Raveled, Spliced, and Braided

by kawakaeguri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blowjobs, Cullenlingus, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gen, M/M, MGiT, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Pining, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Threesome - F/M/M, alistair humor, and crashed, butt stuff, smut train has arrived, that deserves its own tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawakaeguri/pseuds/kawakaeguri
Summary: Finding your soultwin, but denied their company- they've never had it easy, Templar and Grey Warden, now Commander and King. But there was always the guarantee they would be there for the other, the other half of their soul, marked on their skin to link them together forever. Destined to love only each other.Until they didn't.





	1. To See You Like This

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where I'm going with this. Or if I'll continue it. So if you like it and want to see more, drop me a note. There isn't going to be infidelity, btw. Cullen and Ali are too honorable for that. :p

He shouldn’t go out there, that much was certain. His heart had already been given to another, someone who he loved with everything he was. The other half of his soul. So why was he out here?

Maybe it was because she was all alone. An outsider, in a world of soultwins. A person with no marking on her skin to match another’s. Not that it mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. There were many who never met their soultwin, due to circumstance, distance, premature death. And there were still others who had met the other half of their heart, and were denied a future together because of politics, or class status, or duty. Like him.

How long had it been now? Almost 20 years since he had found the other person who bore the same marking as him, and precious few of those years spent in his company. They had an understanding, at least. Freedom to pursue other physical relationships, both of them secure in the knowledge that it would only be a dalliance, for anything more would be impossible to give. It all paled in the face of their love. For how could anyone else compete with the man who literally was the other half of his soul?

A gift from the Maker, the Chantry called it. Cullen wasn’t so sure.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Alistair was in the capital, king of the whole bloody country of Ferelden, and needed to marry a woman so that he could produce an heir. And Cullen was here. Standing behind a set of elegantly carved double doors in Halamshiral, nervously watching her through the paned glass.

Blood had seeped through the fine wool of her fitted coat from the battles from earlier in the night, creating splotchy, dark rusted shadows that shifted as her shoulders lifted in a weary sigh. The intricate braid that the servants had so meticulously woven through her ebony hair had fallen into disarray around her face, and yet, she apparently hadn’t yet found the strength to care enough to do something else with it at this late hour. Her entire body language screamed an unspoken request for solitude and peace.

So why was he here?

Maybe it was because he still vividly remembered the first day he had met her, how wide her eyes had been as she took in the carnage that surrounded the Temple of Sacred Ashes. How she had tried to stand tall despite her terror and inexperience with battle, someone who had never before that day known that demons existed in physical form. From a different world, she had told them. A place with no magic, only one moon, no demons. An easier life, a softer life. And yet she had still risen to the challenge with a grace that had surprised them all. Gritted her teeth, pushed herself harder every day, endured the pain that flared from the anchor in her hand, trained until she was no longer a burden to her team, until even Cassandra gave her approval and admiration. And he, his.

He had wanted to find fault with her at first. A quiet woman, not fit for leading, with no knowledge of the political or practical intricacies of Thedas. Someone who instantly sympathized with the mages’ plight, despite his constant warnings of vigilance and possession. Maker’s breath, she had taken it upon herself to offer the rebel mages a full alliance with the Inquisition, without consulting any of the others. How furious had he been that day?

And still she had stayed. Despite the fact that she was not invested in this world, beyond the possibility that she might be stuck here for the rest of her life. She had no family, precious few that she would call friend. Yet still she had helped, offering what comfort and succor she could to those in need. Still she had completed everything they had asked of her, shying from the menial and seemingly trivial tasks that were sometimes asked of her. Still she had sought him out, asked after his health and for his opinion, deferring easily to him when she was out of her depth, which she had once admitted to him with a sheepish laugh, was often. 

She had faced down an ancient magister, survived an avalanche, and then smiled at him when he found her, near frozen in the snow and whispered in his ear as he desperately clutched her to his chest, “I knew you would find me.”

Not even a month ago, now bearing the title of Inquisitor, she walked the Fade itself, chose between life and death for one of her number, and offered only mercy and a second chance to the Grey Wardens who had caused the disaster.

Then tonight, she had not just survived the Game of the Orlesian court- the Inquisitor had _thrived_ , and prevailed over the impossible machinations of the Grand Duchess Florianne and the would-be emperor, Gaspard, saved the Empress and brought Orlais to heel at her feet.

 _So I suppose the question is, how could I be anywhere else?_ He could at the very least offer a friendly shoulder to lean on. Never mind the fact that he wanted her to do more than just turn to him for support.

Straightening his own crimson jacket, smoothing the cobalt sash over his waist, Cullen pushed open the door and stepped out onto the balcony. “There you are,” he called, as if he had just found her, and hadn’t been standing and staring at her for the last several minutes. “Everyone’s been looking for you.” That much was true.

A muffled groan slipped through her fingers, her stained white gloves pressed to her face. “Are you here to drag me back in? For the record, I’ll go, but let it be known I was not willing.”

“I rather thought I’d hide out here with you. There’s a distinct lack of nobility in this area I find quite appealing,” he grinned as he leaned on the marble balustrade next to where she stood.

“Slumming, Commander? Josephine would be appalled.” One dark eye peeked out from behind her fingers, the barest hint of a smile playing at the edge of her lips. Struck by how utterly exhausted she looked, Cullen frowned down at his own feet. How much had they asked of her? Kept asking of her? Had she ever complained? Not to him, that much he knew.

“I’m the son of a farmer,” he shrugged. “If anything, you’re the one debasing yourself by being out here with me, Inquisitor.”

“The horror,” she laughed. “Also, what do I have to bribe you with to stop calling me Inquisitor? Or Herald,” she added with a mock scowl as he opened his mouth. 

“I’m particularly fond of the ale that Teryn Cousland sends us every now and then,” Cullen smirked. “Senaide.”

“Was that so hard?” Tilting her head up, Senaide huffed a breath of air, blowing a lock of hair away from her face.

“Surprisingly, yes.” With a gentle hand, he reached out to tuck the errant piece of hair behind her ear. And immediately froze, his face flushing a bright red as one of her eyebrows quirked up in surprise at the rather intimate gesture. “I, um… You did well tonight.”

Was that disappointment he read behind her moonlit eyes? “Oh. Um. Thank you,” she muttered, turning away from him. “I don’t even remember what I did. Or how I did it. Everything’s a blur. So much needless death.” Her skin wrinkled as she furrowed her brow at the memory. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Long night?”

“The longest,” she nodded.

“In that case…” Clearing his throat, Cullen rose to his full height, and bowed as elegantly as he could muster, his scar tugging his upper lip askew with his smile. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

“I distinctly remember you grumbling through every dance lesson that Josephine managed to drag you to. And now you’re asking me to dance?” Senaide asked dubiously. “I feel like there’s an ulterior motive here, Commander.”

“Cullen. If you’re going to insist I call you by your name, you can at least call me by mine. And no hidden agenda, I promise. I just thought it would be a shame to waste all those lessons.” His shrug was casual, but she could see the hint of guarded caution in his stilted posture.

With a flourish of her arm, Senaide dipped into a curtsy that would make her ambassador proud, and held out one hand, doing her best to ignore the stains and the coppery tang that wafted from her uniform and not remember all the bodies of the servants that had been discarded like rag dolls, and-

His hand closed around hers, warm and strong. He recognized all too well the trauma of the battles she had seen that lurked within her eyes, had felt it himself so many times before. “There will be time later to mourn,” he murmured gently in her ear. “You’ve done enough tonight. Think of other, happier thoughts.”

Glancing up at him, she smiled. “Like Solas’ hat?”

“Maker,” he coughed. “I wasn’t sure if I had imagined it or not. Although I don’t think my mind could have conjured something so, so…”

“Careful, Cullen. You’re starting to sound like Vivienne.”

“Andraste preserve me.” No, he shouldn’t be out here. Physical liaisons were one thing; he had had his share of lovers in the past, and knew Alistair had the same. After all, neither wanted to begrudge the other what little pleasures they could find in their duty and separation. But this, with the Inqui- with Senaide, was different. The way he enjoyed her company, how he craved the feel of her in his arms, the rush of excitement that rolled through his belly at her presence- it felt perilously close to an emotional breach of trust as anything ever had.

_That’s impossible though. Everyone knows you can’t fall in love with anyone else once you’ve found your soultwin._

So this wasn’t love. Lust? He felt that, undoubtedly. She was a beautiful woman after all, intelligent, witty, kind, strong. It was more than lust. But not love. Could never be love. The mark on his thigh burned.

Why did he feel so guilty?

“When can we go home, you think?”

 _Home_. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened around hers. “Probably the day after tomorrow. I think Josephine has some meetings planned for you in the meantime.”

“Ugh.” Slumping in his arms, Senaide let her head fall forward to softly thud against his shoulder. “Nobles. They’re relentless parasites. Maybe if I stay out here, she won’t fi-”

“Inquisitor! There you are. Oh! Pardon me, am I interrupting?”

Failing miserably in her attempt to stifle her groan, Senaide raised her eyes to Cullen’s, her lips mouthing a silent plea- _save me_ \- even as Josephine swept out onto the balcony. “No, not at all,” she sighed heavily. “What do you need, Josie?”

The elegant Antivan threaded one arm through the Inquisitor’s, her smile dismissing Cullen even as she pulled their unwilling leader back into the ballroom. “Several things, actually. There is the Duke of Lydes, he has been waiting all night for a chance to speak to you. As well as the Marquise of Val Fontaine. Oh! And the…”

Cullen allowed himself a small, sympathetic smile as Senaide grimaced once, then plastered a pleasant expression, her own version of a courtly mask, over her face. Josephine’s interruption was most fortuitous. Had it remained just he and the Inquisitor for much longer, out here alone with no interference, what liberties might he have taken that were not his to have?

He loved Alistair. He should forget about her.

But how?


	2. A Warning Given

_“Hey, you’re the new kid, aren’t ya? Where ya from?”_

_“Honnleath,” a tall, lanky boy replies softly._

_“Where’s that? Ain’t sound like no proper town.”_

_“It’s small. At the base of the Frostbacks.”_

_The first lad snorts, his gaze raking over the second scornfully. “Of course it is. If it was a real town, I’d’ve heard of it. So what did your family do? Something, stupid, like herding nugs?”_

_Glaring up from where he sits on a worn, threadbare rug in front of the fire, the boy purses his lips, warm light glinting off unruly blonde curls. “We were farmers. Do you have a problem with that?”_

_“‘Course he doesn’t,” another voice chimes in. “His own pa was a farmer, right, Frederick?”_

_Frederick whirls around and draws himself up with all the dignity of a 14 year old boy can muster. “Whatever,” he grouses, and slinks off to the other end of the barracks._

_“Don’t mind him,” the newcomer grins as he slides to the floor. “He thinks he’s super important, just because his grandfather was the bastard of old Arl Wulff. I’m Alistair.”_

_“Cullen,” the lanky boy replies warily._

_“Of Honnleath, I heard that part. I’m of, well, nowhere really important. But I did live in Redcliffe. My parents weren’t farmers though. I don’t have parents. I mean, I did, at one point, obviously. I don’t think I just appeared out of thin air. The others don’t really think much of me because of it, even though I’m sure there’s loads of other orphans in the Order. After the war, there’s always orphans, right? You just got here today, didn’t you? I heard Sister Margaret saying there was another recruit joining us. No place for you out there either, huh?”_

_“I… what?” Cullen’s brow wrinkles a bit as he glances up, Alistair finally ceasing his stream of words, the desire for air greater than the need to speak. “Um, yes. I just got here today. What do you mean by no place out there?”_

_Shrugging, Alistair leans against the wall next to the heart, scratching his nose. “That’s why we’re given to the Chantry, right? Most of us. Third and fourth sons and daughters, parents who can’t afford to keep their kids, relatives who don’t-” his breath hitches suspiciously- “who don’t want us anymore.”_

_“It wasn’t like that,” Cullen shakes his head slowly. “I asked to join.”_

_“Oh.” Alistair starts, dark eyes widening. “You did?”_

_Curls flop over a high brown as Cullen returns his attention to the book in his lap. “I used to watch the templars in my village. They help people. I want to do that. Protect those who need it. You don’t?”_

_“I never really thought about it,” Alistair stares down, suddenly fascinated with the hem of his homespun tunic. “There wasn’t a choice for me. I suppose it’s better than some other options though. I think.”_

_“Hey, new kid. I wouldn’t hang around Alistair if I were you. He’s nothing but trouble,” another boy calls from a few bunks over._

_“Am not,” the accused scowls._

_“Plus he’s weird. Screams for no reason in the middle of the night.”_

_“I’m just making sure the brothers are paying attention!” he protests. “Plus, it’s so quiet here.”_

_“I like the quiet,” Cullen mutters._

_“Figures,” Alistair sighs. Pushing himself to his feet, sparing a quick glare for the other boy who had spoken, he crawls into his own bed, pulls a tattered book out from under his mattress and begins to read in defeated silence._

_Cullen frowns down at his hands._

***

The knocked echoed through the massive room, ringing in his ears. With a groan, Alistair forced his eyes open, staring up at the faint shadows on the ceiling painted in pale sunlight. “Come in,” he called, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Your Majesty,” a servant bowed at the waist as he entered the bedchamber. “Apologies for the intrusion, but you said you wanted any correspondence from the Inquisition brought to you at once.”

“Yes, yes.” Waving the man over, Alistair took the scroll, breaking the familiar wax seal with this thumb. “Thank you.” Barely noticing the servant quietly exit his room, the king didn’t bother containing his grin at the sight of the familiar handwriting, uniform and neat, so unlike his own sprawling scribble.

 _The Inquisitor ended the civil war, did she? And saved the empress. Cullen seems to speak more highly of her with each new letter. She must be incredible. I wonder…_ Shaking his head free of that image, Alistair scanned the rest of the letter. They would be marching to Adamant soon. He desperately wanted to go with the battalion he was sending to aid the Inquisition, but Cullen had all but forbidden it. It was too risky, he had argued, since the other Wardens were under Corypheus’ thrall, how easy would it be for the ancient magister to use the taint in the king’s blood? To ensnare Alistair’s mind, take control of Ferelden? Not to mention the toll it would take on Cullen himself. Soultwins did not do well if they lost the other.

No, he was stuck here. In his fancy palace, attended to by a bevy of staff to cater to his every whim, with the heavy weight of a crown upon his head. Alone. 

Sighing, Alistair threw his feet over the edge of his bed, his toes curling in the plush rug that lined the chilled stone floor. A yawn burst forth from his mouth as he stretched out his back, the bones cracking into alignment with each tug of his spine, the parchment crumpling slightly in one fist. Glancing at it again, he felt his heart swell as he reread the last line. 

_I miss you more than anything, my love._

It was a bright spot amid the rest of the letter that was curt and precise, much like the man who wrote it. Never one to waste his time on flowery language, that was his Cullen. It was why they suited each other so well. Cullen would listen, and Alistair would ramble on about anything and everything, until the former grew exasperated with the neverending tidal wave of speech and kissed him just to shut him up. It was Alistair’s favorite pastime. 

Randomly pulling an embroidered tunic the color of darkened emeralds from his armoire, the king shrugged into what was his casual day outfit, slipping his feet into a pair of soft leather boots. Such a far cry from what he had been used to before he assumed the throne. It was one of the few perks of being king, he mused as he grabbed an apple from the tray in his antechamber, not having to wear clothes so worn and ragged that they resembled patched rags. _And I don’t have to mend my own shirts anymore. Or beg Wynne to do it for me._ He smiled as he thought of the older mage, now just a distant, fond memory.

It wasn’t long before his steward Rodric found him, beginning the dance of meetings and conferences that marked the king’s day to day with his usual meticulous acumen, ensuring Alistair’s diplomatic blunders were smoothed over immediately, without the insulted party’s knowledge preferably. What he would have done without the man, he didn’t know. _Probably plunged Ferelden into another civil war_.

“And as for this evening,” Rodric read from his ever present notebook, “You have a meeting with Bann Shianni in the Alienage to inspect the newest healer’s clinic. Construction is due to be completed within the next month. I have the stables readying a horse for you now, sire.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Rodric.” Striding out of his study, Alistair nodded in greeting at the few nobles and servants he passed in the halls, making his way to where his mount stood in the courtyard, patiently awaiting his rider. One of the servants already sat on his own horse a few feet behind the king’s, his robes marking him as a scribe.

“Erroll, Your Majesty,” the scribe bobbed atop his saddle. “I’ll be recording today’s events for you.”

Sending up a silent prayer to the Maker thanking Him for the fact that he wouldn’t have to wrack his memory later on for the minuscule details that were forever eluding him, Alistair vaulted onto his horse and rode into town. These days were his favorite. Well, would be his favorite, if he didn’t have any appointments to keep and could go incognito. But as regnal engagements went, meeting with Shianni was, dare he say, fun. He had always liked the fierce elf’s company, from the first time he met her during the days of the Blight. Tabris’ cousin, in fact. Or the Hero of Ferelden, as most people called her these days.

People lined the streets as he passed, calling out for his favor, holding up their children so that the littles could get a glimpse of the Warden King, the man who had struck the final blow against the archdemon and ended a Blight. He was a hero to the people, which still boggled his mind. He was just Alistair, a nobody. _A nobody who became king solely by virtue of my blood. How awkward_. Dismounting several times to talk with various individuals as his small guard wound their way through the city, Alistair grimaced when he finally glanced up and noted the position of the sun in the sky. 

“Shianni is going to kill me.”

“You’re late, Your Majesty,” a red-headed elf snapped out as the king approached sheepishly. His scribe, Erroll, gasped from behind him at her audacity. _He must be new_ , Alistair thought.

“Ah, yes, I, um… Well, you see there was-”

“Still stopping talk with every single person who asks you to?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t help it,” Alistair grumbled.

A smirk tugged at her lips, her eyes rolling heavenward. Reaching out to pat his arm, she grinned, “I figured as much. Come on, this way.” This was why he liked her so much; she was one of the only ones around here that treated him as a person, not just a monarch. Sometimes, he forgot what it was like to only be Alistair.

Meekly following the bann around the district, he listened attentively as she pointed out the status on the various projects they both had been working on, introducing him to the teachers at the school that had been flourishing, to the human nobility’s chagrin. They didn’t like how he was elevating the elves to the same level as them, doing such insidious things as, Maker forbid, teaching them to read and write. Alistair shrugged. For all he cared, they could, in Tabris’ eloquent words, get bent. 

“So everyone’s doing well, then?”

“As well as we can be,” she nodded. “Better than it’s ever been, that’s for sure. Your people are grateful.”

“It’s the least I could have done. Besides,” he gave her a lopsided smile, “If I don’t do my best, Tabris will put spiders on me while I sleep when she comes back. Again.”

“She did that to Soris once,” Shianni laughed at the memory. “He didn’t sleep for weeks after that.”

“Neither did I,” Alistair snorted wryly.

Pausing before a house that had recently been repaired, the wood still pale and smelling of sweet sap, Shianni cast a furtive glance around before beckoning the king over. “In here, I’ve got someone that wants to meet you. Ah, just you, if you don’t mind.”

Curious, Alistair waved his nervous guards backs, knowing full well that he could trust this woman with his life. He followed her into the small building, ducking his tall frame through the entrance.

“Lyrial? I brought him.”

A petite elf bobbed a deep curtsy as Alistair straightened up in the cramped room, her honey blonde hair pulled back into a simple braid. 

“I recognize you,” he frowned. “You’re one of the servants in the castle, aren’t you? In the kitchens? Wait!” A blush flooded his skin. “Ah… You’re the one who caught me in the larder the other week in the middle of the night.”

“I am, Your Majesty,” she tried to hide her smile behind a slim hand. “I have urgent news. I beg your forgiveness for the secrecy, but…” Lyrial bit her lip. “I fear you may be in danger.”

Alistair cocked his head to one side and clasped his hands behind his back. “Go on.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, Your Majesty, but there’s been an influx of new servants recently. At least three in the kitchens, and four more among the maids, which is the most new staff we’ve seen in three years at least. There’s not a high turnover among the servants. It’s because we all enjoy working for you, Your Majesty, very much so,” she hastily assured him. Alistair grinned. “But, I, ah, oh yes. The new servants, their accents are odd. None of them are Ferelden, that is for certain. And Mistress MacKinney says they’re not Orlesian, nor from the Free Marches. One of the other servants said he knew a man with a similar accent, from-” her voice dropped to a whisper- “Tevinter. I thought it might just be my imagination, but others have felt it too. Something isn’t right. We don’t think they’re ordinary servants. And there were rumors of Tevinter mages in Redcliffe, just a few months ago.”

An icy freeze gripped Alistair’s heart. _More of that Tevinter cult? In Denerim?_ “I see,” he murmured. “Thank you, Lyrial, for bringing this to me. Maferath’s beard, what a mess. I should get back to the castle. Shianni, did you need anything else? No? Alright, I’ll take my leave then.”

“If I hear anything else, Your Majesty, I’ll let you know,” Lyrial dropped into another curtsy.

“If you would,” inclining his head, giving Shianni a nod of farewell, Alistair swept out of the house and swung himself back up into his saddle.

“Sire? Is everything alright?”

 _The scribe. He’s new, right? Maker, is there anyone I can still trust? Rodric. There’s that other scribe, what’s his name? Donal, right?_ “Everything’s fine. I think we’re all done here. Let’s head back.”

Why was the cult here? What were they called again? _Vaino- Veto- Venot- Damn. Maybe Cullen wrote it in one of his letters, I’ll have to check. What should I do? Can’t round up any templars to come help, they've all gone insane. I suppose I’ll have to go check it out myself, see if I feel anything. I wonder if the Inquisition would send people? After all, they went all the way to Halamshiral to save Celene. I should ask. Cullen and Leliana would probably be willing. From all accounts, the Inquisitor is a nice person. After all, I remember she offered the mages a full alliance, even after that fiasco. Pretty, too._ Alistair felt a faint smile ghost across his face as he remembered her, those bright green eyes staring him down with a boldness he hadn’t experienced in years. 

Handing his reins to one of the stableboys, Alistair decided to take the long way back to his study, stopping by the kitchen under the pretense of begging for a snack. His stomach rumbled. Well, maybe not such a ruse. One of the newer servants that Lyrial had mentioned shot him a winning smile and quickly made him a sandwich from the leftover roast from lunch, offering to bring by a full platter later, if he desired. Hoping that the smile he wore appeared genuine enough, Alistair waved her offer off.

The sandwich seemed innocent enough. She wouldn’t have had time to poison it, right? She wouldn’t have known that the king would just pop in to ask for food, and he had eaten the same roast earlier today, so this, at least, should be safe. Shrugging, he took a bite. _I can hear Cullen yelling at me now. Alistair, what were you thinking? I was thinking that I’m hungry, Cullen, obviously._

Casting his rusty templar senses out as wide as he could, Alistair leaned against a wall just outside the kitchen nonchalantly, munching on his food, trying to see if he could pick up anything- _There! It’s faint. Or I’m just out of practice. Probably just too far away from the mage. But that’s definitely magic. Creepy magic. They probably cackle when they cast spells._

Once safely back in his study, Alistair pulled a piece of parchment out and dipped his quill into the inkwell, wondering how best to phrase his request. _Inquisitor, please save me. Help?_

“Personal correspondence, Your Majesty?”

“Ah, Rodric, just in time. No, I was about to petition the Inquisition for aid.”

“If I may suggest His Majesty use a scribe? That way the Inquisitor will be able to actually read the letter,” his steward replied dryly.

“Ha ha,” Alistair scowled. “Fine. Will you send Donal here?”

“At once, sire.”

A middle aged man poked his head in a few minutes later, bowing before the king as he entered the study. “At your service, sire.” 

“Donal, I have a letter I need transcribed. No, Rodric, you stay. The contents are extremely important. What I say here does not leave this room, understood?” Both men started, glancing at each other nervously, and nodded.

“We swear it will be so.”

Resting his elbows on the smooth surface of his desk, Alistair steepled his fingertips together and rested his forehead against them, shoulders heaving as he released a weary sigh. “Right. This is what I need to send.

“Inquisitor, I hope this letter finds you well. Congratulations on your victory in Orlais and on preventing Empress Celene’s assassination. Now, I’m hoping you wouldn’t mind stopping mine, despite my boorish behavior back in Redcliffe, which I’m still dreadfully sorry about, mind you. The cultists that you drove out of Redcliffe… Von… Venatori! I think they’re called? We have them in the royal palace now, or so I’m told. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I need to find them and drive them out. Since the Inquisition knows all about them, I’m hoping you’ll help. Something something grateful something. Wait,” Alistair frowned as the man kept writing. “Did you just write that? You scribes do this on purpose, don’t you?” Sighing as Donal blinked innocently up at his liege, Alistair ran a hand through his hair, groaning at the mental image of Cullen’s frustration when his letter would be read aloud to the mighty Inquisitor. “Never mind. Just send it. Immediately, if you don’t mind.”

“Cultists, Your Majesty?” Rodric’s jaw hinged open, his dark eyes wide with fear. “You don’t mean those Tevinter mages that were in Redcliffe, do you?”

“The very ones,” Alistair replied grimly. “Ask a few of the servants, the ones you trust that have been here for a long time. Have them keep an eye out on the new staff, but under no circumstances is anyone to question them or do anything to arouse suspicion. I won’t have any of my people harmed needlessly. Hopefully, the Inquisitor will send a few of her men here, they’ve got loads of experience dealing with these bastards. Until then, stay alert.”

_And pray to the Maker that Cullen can convince the Inquisitor to send help before the Venatori make their move._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I might do flashbacks of Cullen and Alistair's past at the beginning of every chapter. That seems fun.


	3. To Aid the King

_“Alistair, what are you doing?”_

_Jerking back from the edge of the balcony, Alistair throws his hands behind his back, toeing the floor with the tip of his worn boot. “Nothing,” he mutters._

_“Nothing,” Cullen repeats, his voice flat. “What is behind your back?”_

_“It’s, ah, a book?”_

_“Let me see it.”_

_Shoulders slump as Alistair drags his arms to the front, clutching a leather sack in one hand. “Fine. It’s just a bag. See?”_

_Cullen leans forward, and pokes the bag with one finger, raising an eyebrow upwards as the soft leather gives oddly beneath his touch. “Alistair. Did you… fill the bag with water?”_

_“...Maybe.”_

_“And what are you doing to do with it?” He follows Alistair’s glance over the edge of the railing, where Brother Marcus sits below, meditating in the small herb garden within the courtyard. “You’ll get in so much trouble if you do that! Give it to me.”_

_“No! He- he-” Scrunching up his face, Alistair turns away from Cullen, glaring out into the distance. “Yesterday, he…”_

_Cullen remembers. The others had been picking on Alistair, as was their wont to do, but this time, one of the older boys, Vincent, had shoved him face down into a pile of manure out behind the gardens. The younger lad had surprised them all when he whirled back to his feet, lashing out in an uncharacteristic display of violence, shoving Vincent down into the dust and leapt upon his chest, raining blow after blow down on his hapless victim. Brother Marcus had appeared then and called for help, breaking the two apart. He refused to hear any excuses or pleas of innocence from Alistair, nor Cullen for that matter, assigning total blame to the ragged orphan. They were supposed to be equals here, but Vincent’s parentage, as a son of the Bann of Portsmouth, gave him privilege. The brother made them all watch as Alistair was forced to brace himself against a wooden fence post, and given ten lashes for his insubordination, ripping his already torn tunic to shreds, Vincent smirking in victory all the while. Cullen didn’t understand. They were training them to be templars, to protect and serve, but this was just… cruel._

_“I know,” Cullen murmurs softly. “But you’ll just make it worse if you do this.”_

_“You’re right,” he grumbles. “You’re always right. How do you do that, anyways? No, don’t answer. I don’t need any more examples of how hopeless I am.”_

_“You’re not hopeless.” The words are meant to come out as a reassurance, but Cullen spits them out almost viciously. “You’re not stupid, Alistair.”_

_“Right,” Alistair snorts. Grinding his heel into the stones, he spins away from the balcony. He steps on the lace of his boot. He trips. Both boys look on in horror as he reflexively throws his hands into the air, the water filled sack sailing far too effortlessly over the railing, falling down, down. The sack splatters across Brother Marcus’ head. No one breathes for a heartbeat that lasts for an eternity._

_Alistair reacts first, throwing himself backwards and out of sight while Cullen follows a split second later, but still too late._

_“CULLEN RUTHERFORD! Get down here this instant!” comes the roar from below._

_Scrambling to his feet, shoving the ashen face boy out of his way, Alistair flings himself against the balustrade, and yells, “It wasn’t him! It was me! Cullen didn’t do anything!”_

_“You,” the brother snarls. “I should have known it was your doing. Leading good boys like Rutherford down the same unholy path as you. Both of you, down here now!”_

_Tears burn hot in his eyes as Alistair dares to glance up at Cullen, who has frozen in place, not daring to even blink. “Cullen, I’m sorry, I’m-”_

_“We should go down.” The words are flat, and hollow._

_All his fault. Just like everything else. His entire existence has been just one huge mistake. And now Cullen, the only one he had ever dared to think of as his friend, hates him. All his fault._

_“Yeah.”_

***

“Yield. Bastard.”

“Aw, don’t be like that Your Worship. You almost had me that time.”

Senaide rolled her eyes, flipping her long braid over one shoulder. “Sure thing, Krem puff. I’m also six feet tall with purple polka dots.”

“I didn’t know you were related to the Chief.”

“Nah, he’s more of a lavender. Maybe closer to a robin’s egg blue?”

“Are you both finished?”

Both of them grinned unrepentantly as they sheathed their weapons, Senaide giggling at the large Qunari’s huff of exasperation. She saw the hint of a smile before he managed to hide it.

“You're much better than when we started, though,” the Iron Bull continued. “But you need to stop hesitating. You’re not going to hurt him that badly. Besides, on the battlefield, the whole goal is to hurt the opponent."

“I know,” she sighed, taking the ladle of water that Dalish proffered. “It’s easier when it’s demons. The people are harder.” The bandits, red templars, Venatori- they had lives. They were men and women with families and stories and goals and hardships. Lives were taken so casually in this place everyday. It was a fact of Thedosian life that she had yet to acclimate to, but with each life she took, it got a bit easier.

She wasn’t sure if she liked that or not.

“Same time tomorrow, yeah? I’ve got a meeting in a few.” Waving goodbye to the Chargers, Senaide quickly jogged through the keep, skillfully ducking and maneuvering through the crowds in the great hall to avoid the nobles that always gathered there, eager to suck her into their convoluted politics and scheming. That was part of being Inquisitor that she hated the most. The lying and deceit, the inability to tell people off to their face. Not that she would; she was far too soft spoken for that. But the option would have been nice.

The best part about being Inquisitor was definitely her room. The view she had from up here was beyond magnificent, her balcony opening up to a spectacular vista of the Frostbacks, so similar to the Rocky Mountains of her youth. It was funny, how much she had missed Earth at first. Cried herself to sleep every night, spending her days terrified of everything and everything. But somehow, slowly, with the help of those around her, she gradually began to forget. Forget about what it was like to sleep on a memory foam mattress, forgot about microwaves, and television, and computers. Forget what her apartment had looked like, what her best friend’s laugh sounded like, what her boyfriend’s eyes had looked like. Strange, how she didn’t miss him more. They had been struggling the last few months before she had disappeared, it was true, but to not care at all that she would probably never see him again… She missed her pet beta fish more to be honest.

Snatching up a cloth, Senaide scrubbed the worst of the sweat and grime off her skin and discarded her armor, slipping a fresh tunic over her head and lacing up leather breeches. It only took a second more for her to check her reflection in the mirror, opting to comb out her braid and pull it into a bun high atop her head instead. There was always a fine line between looking her best and looking like she put too much effort into her appearance. Not that she was trying to look her best, or impress anyone, or anything like that. It was-

“Foolishness,” she muttered to herself as she clattered down the stairs. She needed to just forget about her infatuation with the man. Forget the way he smiled at her with those bright eyes of his, that devilish smirk that tugged at his lips, the warm, comforting feel of him beneath her hands as he danced with her that night at the Winter Palace. He was her Commander, not some eye candy for her to gawk at. 

Because, despite her casual flirtations and his subtle appreciation, she could tell there was something holding him back. Maybe he had someone else? She hadn’t seen him with anyone else here in Skyhold, but he was an intensely private man. Someone in his past? No, he had told her no one had caught his eye in Kirkwall or anywhere else. Perhaps she just wasn’t his type and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings with rejection.

Tossing a wave in Varric’s direction as she bounced back through the main hall, Senaide pushed a side door open, inhaling deeply of the fragrant embrium that welcomed her to the gardens. _It was a good idea to fill this place with herbs. Smells so pretty._

“There you are, Inqui- Senaide. Right on time, I’m surprised.” Cullen smiled up from where he sat before a chess board. She appreciated that he had been making a conscious effort to call her by her name, at least during informal occasions.

“Have to keep you on your toes,” she replied brightly, sliding into the chair opposite him. “I can’t become predictable now, can I?”

“Maker forbid,” his chuckled rumbled through his chest and her fingers itched to feel it beneath her skin. “Is being predictable such a bad thing?”

“Hmm. I think there’s a difference in being predictable and reliable, if that’s what you’re asking. You are definitely the latter. And mostly the former. You do surprise me every now and then.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” his gaze never left the board, eyes darting from piece to piece, one hand propping his chin up.

Senaide lifted on shoulder lazily. “We’re all creatures of habit, Commander. So no, I don’t think it’s a bad thing. But life gets boring if you always do what’s proper, what people expect of you, don’t you think? Sometimes it’s fun to buck the rules and do something crazy.”

“Like go fight yet another dragon instead of leaving it be, like normal people would?” Cullen drawled with a quirk of his lips.

“Exactly!” Swiping a pawn off the board, she fiddled with the smooth marble in one hand, idly chewing on her bottom lip, ignorant of the way Cullen watched her from the corner of his eye. “Just for the record, I would happily leave them there to be their lovely, dragon selves, but it makes Bull happy to fight them. And Harrit, and Dagna. They get all giddy when I bring them back the spoils of dragonhunting. Honestly, you should be thanking me too, since the soldiers benefit as well. So you’re welcome.”

Choking back a cough, Cullen lifted his gaze only to see her smirking back at him. He laughed, shaking his head, the unusual sound stunning a few of others that were in the gardens. God, she loved hearing him laugh. It was such a rare occasion to hear anything more than a soft chuckle most of the time, so it had become sort of a challenge for her to see if she could get him to truly laugh each time they played chess. And laugh he did, easier and more freely as the months passed, Senaide slowly teasing him out of his shell.

“Your move.”

“Inquisitor, Commander!” A runner shouted from above, moving as quickly as possible down the stairs from the battlements. He waited until he was closer, his breath huffing slightly, and offered them both a quick bow. “Sister Nightingale requests both of your presences in the war room, immediately, she said.”

Senaide glanced at Cullen with lips pressed into a tight line. “On our way.”

Practically jogging to keep up with Cullen’s longer strides, she murmured once they were out of earshot, “What do you think it is? Something with the Wardens?”

“Not sure. Maker, if they’ve somehow moved up their operations…”

The world would be doomed.

The door swung open with a bang that reverberated through the room, one hand of Josephine’s flying to her throat, a sharp gasping escaping her. Senaide winced. “Sorry, Josie. What’s happened?”

Leliana smoothed out a scroll over the map on the heavy oak table. A crimson and gold wax seal had been broken, the imprint familiar but too far away for her to identify. 

“We’ve gotten a letter from the king of Ferelden.” Senaide saw Cullen’s head jerk up in her vision’s periphery. _Interesting_. “He suspects that Venatori have infiltrated the palace and requests our aid in flushing them out. Here, read it for yourself.”

Taking the parchment, Senaide began to read, but paused after the first sentence, glancing over her shoulder, for the Commander’s hot breath upon her neck proved far too distracting. The man was almost standing on top of her. “Um, Commander?”

“Oh!” Flushing a deep red, he anxiously rubbed his neck and took a step backwards. “Apologies, Inquisitor.” 

“Something something grateful something,” Senaide giggled as she reached the end. “Is he always like this?’

“Being king has changed him in many ways,” Leliana grinned. “But he’s always had a rather unique sense of humor.”

Cullen snorted. “Unique is one way of putting it.”

“He doesn’t have much patience for formalities,” the spymaster added. 

“I like him already.” Senaide thought about asking if Cullen was alright, given the way his knuckles had tightened on the pommel of his sword and how that vein in his temple pulsed violently, but Leliana interrupted her thoughts. 

“I’ll send a few scouts immediately to Denerim.”

Tapping her fingers on the map, Senaide traced a path from the Frostback Mountains, where Skyhold was hidden, to the Western Approach, at the far end of Orlais. “Commander. How much longer before we march on Adamant?”

“Given Stroud’s latest intelligence, we have another six to eight weeks before the Wardens will be ready to begin their ritual. However, we’re set to leave in three. It’ll take a week to march there.”

She nodded to herself. “That’ll give me enough time. I’ll go to Denerim myself with a small group. Sera, for sure, Cassandra, her cleansing abilities will be helpful… Maybe one other? Then we’ll ride to meet up with the rest of the army on the way to Adamant.”

“Are you sure, Inquisitor? My scouts would be more than able to take control of the situation,” inscrutable emerald green watched her curiously, missing nothing in their study.

“We journeyed, the entire Inquisition, to bloody Orlais to help save Celene,” Cullen all but snarled. “I think the Inquisitor should go to Denerim. Otherwise, there will be those who accuse us of favoring Orlais over Ferelden. The king deserves the best. If he were lost…” His face appeared as if carved from granite.

“The Commander is right,” Josephine nodded her approval. “We cannot be seen to show preference to one nation over another.” Leliana acquiesced with a gracious tilt of her head.

Senaide examined Cullen, resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow in question. She had expected him to demand she remain behind, especially this close to marching on Adamant. He also didn’t like it when she risked herself needlessly, preferring to use the soldiers and scouts if possible. _Unpredictable, indeed._

“Alright, I’ll gather my things and send runners to find the others. I’m assuming time is of the essence? We’ll leave in three hours, then.”

Cullen barely noticed when the rest of the ladies exited the room, his eyes glued to the letter that still lay across the table. Gently touching the last few lines, his mind conjuring Alistair’s wry smile that he was sure had graced his lover’s face when he realized what the scribe had done, he exhaled a rough breath. _Please, Maker, let him be okay. Let Senaide reach him in time._

***

“So d’you get into Commander Tight Britches pants yet?”

“Sera!”

“What? Just askin’. Because he needs it.”

Huffing to herself, Cassandra rolled her eyes and turned her back on the elf. “It’s none of your business to be asking.”

“I mean, templars don’t have soultwins, yeah? And Quizzie here doesn’t have a soulmark, which is weird but whatever, so it’s perfect.”

“Soulmark?” Senaide’s head popped up from her book. “I’ve heard that before, but never really was told anything about them.”

“They’re a gift from the Maker,” Cassandra reached behind her to grab another log, and threw it onto the fire as she arranged herself so that she was facing Senaide. “It’s said that each person starts out as one soul, and then is split, and both halves are marked. For those who are lucky enough to meet their soultwin in life, it is a match like no other. The bound pair will be inexplicable drawn to each other, and only love the other, no one else, for the rest of their days.“

“Everyone? So why don’t templars have the mark?”

“They do. It appears on everyone, human, dwarf, elf, even Qunari around age 16 or so, but templars…” Cassandra sighed. “The Chantry brands templars over their soulmarks. They’re supposed to devote their life to the Maker, and so renounce their ties. Seekers, and some of the clergy, do as well. I believe the Qun also calls for the removal of soulmarks.”

“That sounds… painful,” Senaide rubbed one arm in sympathetic pain. 

“Most of us still remember what our mark looked like though.” One hand drifted to her calf, idly grazing the leather that covered her leg.

“Buncha nutters,” Sera mumbles from across the campfire. “So like I said. Commander Fancy-pants ain’t got a person. And I saw you dancin’ with him at the ball. I s’pose he’s pretty pretty, and all. You goin’ for it?”

Drawing her knees to her chest, Senaide half-heartedly shrugged, her eyes staring unfocused into the dancing flames, watching the sparks flicker. “I don’t know. I really don’t think he sees me like that.”

“Pfft. I see how he looks at you when you’re walkin’ away. Hips all,” fabric rustled against the sandy ground as Sera wiggled her rear with an impish grin. “He definitely sees you like that. Sorta sickening actually, the way he practically drools. Then again, can’t blame him. Oof.”

“Thanks,” the Inquisitor snorted. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

“And then some, case you wanted to know.”

“Lovely,” Cassandra muttered from her side of the fire. “You’ve been oddly quiet, dwarf.”

“Hmm?” Varric swiveled to glance over at the Seeker, then returned his attention to the notebook in his hands, pushing his spectacles just a bit higher up the bridge of his nose. “Thinking. I’m sure that surprises you, Seeker, but I do that every once in awhile.”

Varric had asked to join the group when he learned of their mission, citing his previous dealings with the king a few years prior and his fondness for the man. “He needs all the looking after he can get,” he had chuckled. “His Majesty has a penchant for getting himself in trouble far too easily.”

Staggering to her feet with a drawn out yawn, Senaide waved her arm at the others. “I’m headed to bed now. See you guys in the morning.”

“Storm,” Varric motioned for her to stop before she ducked into her tent. He had bestowed that nickname upon her after she threatened bodily harm one night back in Haven after one too many people called her Herald. 

“You can call me Senaide or Sen, but I swear Varric, if I hear Herald one more time tonight, I will rip off someone’s ears.”

And so he had decided on Storm instead. “More like the calm before the storm,” he had mused. “Calm, deceptive. Feels pleasant and relaxing with that nice, lovely breeze and then boom, you’re shit out of luck if you haven’t taken cover.” She had laughed.

“What’s up?”

Making sure they were out of earshot from the others, Varric leaned in closer. “It’s not common knowledge, but I feel like you should know, before… Well. Curly has a soultwin. They’re not together because of circumstance, but he does know them. And loves them.”

“Oh,” biting her lip, Senaide stared down at her feet. “I figured it was something like that. Thanks for telling me, Varric. Otherwise I might have made a fool of myself.”

“Always here to help.”

“Hey, Varric? Do you have a soulmark? Can I see it, or is that completely scandalous to ask,” she grinned.

He considered it for a moment, then shrugged, and stuffed his notebook in his back pocket. “Sure.” Tugging his tunic hem free, he lifted his shirt up over his chest.

“What’s he doin’? Hey dwarf, no one wants to see that!” Sera screeched from behind.

“Everyone wants to see the chest hair,” Senaide replied mildly. “So that’s it?” It looked like a stylized bird’s wing tattooed in black ink on the side of his lower back, a few inches under his ribcage. “It’s pretty. And it just appeared there?”

“Yup,” turning towards the light, Varric craned his neck back to catch a glimpse. “Still haven’t found its twin yet. Kinda given up hope I ever will.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with you? Quizzy, I think the Seeker’s broken,” Sera called.

From across the circle of tents, Cassandra stared in wide-eyed shock at Varric's back, paralyzed to the ground, her book forgotten by her feet where it had fallen. “I- I…” she stammered. “I need to go to bed.” Whirling around, she leapt into the darkness of her tent.

“That was weird,” Senaide murmured.

Varric frowned to himself, tugging his shirt back into place. “...Yeah. Weird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I type about someone yawning, I yawn in real life. WHY. STAHP.


	4. To Start a Dance

_In the end, it had been Alistair that had borne the brunt of the punishment, insisting that Cullen was in no way at fault, that he had been trying to talk him out of it. And so Cullen had just been sent to the kitchen, to help the sisters scrub the pots after supper, while Alistair had been thrown into solitary confinement for two days._

_After that, the normally rambunctious boy withdrew himself from all of the others, shying away from any and all conversation, turning tail and running whenever Cullen approaches him. It is for the best, he tells himself. He can’t get Cullen into trouble again. It hurts too much._

_So instead, he throws himself into his training, the only thing he finds solace in anymore. The discipline helps, having something to focus on. He finds he’s good at fighting, the sword and shield coming naturally to him, suiting his frame that is beginning to fill out under the constant drills and the filling food the sisters prepare for them. He likes that about this place, not having to go to bed hungry, like before. Well, unless he does something foolish._

_His days are the same, filled with with structure and routine that never strays. Today is an exception. For it is the first day that it is warm enough to swim in the nearby pond. And since everyone has been on their best behavior these last few weeks, even Alistair, they are allowed the afternoon to go and be boys instead of recruits for a few precious hours._

_“Hey! Reginald, on your back!”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Your soulmark! It’s finally there!”_

_“Really?” Reginald twists and turns, but soon realizes he cannot see the lines upon his skin that bind him to another. “What does it look like?”_

_“Kind of like a tree, actually. A short, fat tree.”_

_“You’re just jealous, Nicholas, because yours looks like a nug.”_

_“Does not!”_

_“Does too!”_

_Cullen rolls his eyes at their childish banter, turning his attention back to the crystal waters before him. He used to love swimming at the pond behind his family’s cottage as a child, and had been looking forward to this for ages._

_Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alistair a few paces down the shoreline, stripping out of his own clothes before tossing them haphazardly to the side. From this angle, his soulmark isn’t visible, but Cullen knows the dark lines on the inside of Alistair’s forearm that spiral together in the semblance of a rose, has seen them every day since he came here. It is the most beautiful soulmark that he has ever seen, even prettier than the ones that lay on his parents’ skin.  
Frowning down at his own bare body, Cullen sighs. It shouldn’t matter that he hasn’t gotten his mark yet. Most soulmarks do not manifest until the age of 16, so there is still a year left before his will appear, and he is one of the youngest in his class anyways._

_And he is going to be a templar. So having a soulmark won’t matter anyways. He feels sorry for his unknown soultwin, that they will never find him, and he them. But templars devote their lives to the Maker and His Bride. Templars have their soulmarks branded over with the Sword of Mercy when they take their vows. One day, Cullen will undergo the same rite that every templar has before him, and his soulmark, whatever form it takes, will only be a distant, forgotten memory._

_“Rutherford, are you just going to stare at Alistair, or are you going to jump in?”_

_Cullen’s blush matches Alistair’s, but he doesn’t see. He’s too busy averting his eyes, shamefully staring down at his feet. Then, he leaps into the water, and a question comes to mind. “Alistair. Why does no one ever call you by your surname?”_

_Warm brown eyes turn a bit colder as they regard him from a few feet over. “I don’t have one.”_

_“He’s just a bastard,” Vincent crows from behind them. “Probably the bastard of some whore and a drunkard.”_

_Opening his mouth, Alistair snaps it shut and sullenly dives away, heading for the opposite side of the pond. Cullen whirls on the attacker._

_“So what if he is? Does it truly matter? He’s a templar recruit now, the same as you!”_

_“I am not the same as him,” Vincent retorts, fire blazing in his eyes. “Take it back!”_

_Rising to his full height, Cullen glares and makes sure he enunciates every word for the dullard’s benefit, so that he will not mistake a single word. “I was wrong. He’s not the same as you. He’s smarter, kinder, and stronger than you’ll ever be! Alistair is better than you.”_

_The fight is bloody as expected, and the whole class in punished and barred from swimming for the rest of the summer. That night, Alistair pauses at the foot of Cullen’s bunk, his eyes studying the dozens of scrapes and bruises that now litter the latter’s fair skin._

_“You shouldn’t have said that to him.”_

_“Why?” Cullen retorts. “It’s the truth. Not my fault he’s too stupid to see it.”_

_Alistair smiles, and absently rubs the rose on his arm._

***

The incessant sound of his quill scraping against the thick parchment was interrupted by a cacophony of barks that drifted in through his window that had been propped open to catch any sort of breeze that nature would deign to send his way. The summer heat was stifling here in Denerim, and the whole city reeked of dog and fish.

 _The Orlesians would have a field day with that_ , Alistair grinned to himself. _But they can’t say Ferelden is brown, at least, not right now_. He knew that his country was covered in lush fields at the peak of their growth, wildflowers and greenery blanketing the whole land.

Signing his name with a flourish that would have Rodric rolling his eyes later at his liege, Alistair threw a bit of sand across the wet ink, tilting it this way and that until the parchment was dry, and rolled it up. He’d seal it later. There was something he had to do first, something in the back of his mind, a thought niggling at his brain. Was it important? _Probably. It’s always something important_. Perhaps a walk would clear his brain and it would come back to him.

The chair legs ground against the stone as he pushed himself away from his desk, and rose. A quick knock rapped against the door, and swung open as he called out for whoever it was to enter.

“Your Majesty,” his guard saluted. “I was sent to inform you that the Inquisitor will be arriving any minute. Her group was spotted just outside the palace quarter not a candlemark ago.”

“Thank you, Samuel, was it?” The man beamed at having been recognized.

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

Alistair had been surprised when the Inquisitor had sent word that she would be coming personally, although he suspected that Cullen more than likely had something to do with that. To be honest, he had been hoping that the Commander would have been able to sneak away instead, but he knew that duty called. It always called for them both. Cullen was too preoccupied with the preparations for Adamant, readying his own forces to launch an assault against the old fortress and the Grey Wardens who held it.

Maker, the Wardens. He could scarcely believe that the noble order had resulted to blood magic, of all things, in their fear. And the Calling, the Calling…

It wasn’t real. The first dark tendrils of the song had gripped him with an icy fear, freezing his breath in his lungs. More time, it was too soon, this wasn’t right- Because it wasn’t real. Cullen had sent him a raven, his normally immaculate script sloppy and scrawled across a dirty piece of parchment, desperate to let his lover know the truth the instant that he knew himself. They still had time, rare though it was. And hope of more time, if Tabris returned from her quest successful. But that was too much to think of quite yet.

He waited out by a side door near the kennels, not in the courtyard like the Inquisitor’s rank should demand. Discretion, Leliana had insisted, was of utmost importance. The Venatori could not be tipped off that the Herald of Andraste was within the palace walls. So she came to the palace under a ruse, yet another of the unmarried nobility to be presented to the king in hopes of an alliance, escorted by an old friend from the Free Marches and accompanied by a few guards.

“Varric!” Alistair excitedly waved as soon as he caught sight of the dwarf. “Maker, it’s good to see you again.”

“Your Majesty,” the dwarf grinned back. “Good to see you in one piece and all kingly.”

“For now, at least. And this must be-”

“Allow me to introduce you to Lady Senaide Trevelyan.” 

Alistair stared. A pair of wide, dark green eyes framed by sooty lashes that gently brushed tanned cheeks smiled back down at him. Onyx curls were tidily pinned atop her head, crowning a face that he was sure was more beautiful than Andraste herself had been. 

“Your Majesty, thank you for having us. It’s lovely to meet you.”

And her voice, soft, almost husky, melodic. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to hear her speak endlessly for the rest of-

What was he thinking?

“Ah, Lady Trevelyan, the pleasure is all mine,” he managed to spit out. Reaching up to take her gloved hand, he held her steady as she she swung one leg over the side of the horse in an elegant arc, and slid down to the ground. She was… tiny. Much more petite than he had imagined. The tales and conquests and ferocity of the Inquisitor were lauded throughout Thedas, and he had always pictured her to be something more akin to a female Sten. Perhaps like that guard captain in Kirkwall that he had met, or like the Seeker, who stood like an irate statue just behind her leader. Alistair almost didn’t recognize the latter without her typical armor stamped with the symbol of her order that she had worn when he met her previously when she came to Denerim seeking a lead on the Hero of Ferelden, but those chiseled cheekbones and the icy, death glare in her eyes were impossible to misplace. “Seeker Pentaghast, it’s an honor to have you back here again.”

“And this is Sera, my servant,” Senaide waved a hand back at a blond elf that held a mischievous twinkle in her eye. _That must be the girl Cullen complains about so much. I’ll have to compare notes with her later._

“You are all very welcome,” Alistair swept them his most regal bow. “Rodric, will you show the lady and Master Tethras to their chambers? I’m sure you’re eager to change out of your travel clothes.” His eyes tried not to trail down the formfitting leather that encased her legs, but it proved too tempting. Rodric pointedly cleared his throat. Ears burning, the king jerked his gaze up to meet a very amused Inquisitor and an openly smirking dwarf.

“If you would follow me, my lady, Master Tethras.”

“If you would like to join me for supper tonight in my rooms, I would be most honored,” Alistair caught her hand as she stepped into the dim castle hall. He could feel the air being sucked from his lungs with the full weight of her gaze on him and so close now, the faint scent of lavender filling his nose. “Well, not in my room. Although technically, every room in here is mine isn’t it? Since I’m the king and all. I meant in my chamber. Antechamber? Do you like cheese?” _Oh, Maker, she’s laughing at me now._

Wincing at his own rambling, Alistair released her and took a deep breath, determined that his next words wouldn’t be so bumbling. But Senaide laid her hand back on his arm, and smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “That sounds perfect. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Alistair, please.” The words tumbled from his lips before he had a chance to stop them. It was demeaning of his position, Eamon had scolded him on many occasions, to have the lesser nobility call him by his given name. And despite the fact that the Inquisitor was more than his equal, she was here today as a minor lady and should not call him so informally, not in public. But then again, when did he ever care about propriety? 

“Then you must call me Senaide.”

“Senaide,” he whispered to himself as she disappeared with her retinue down the corridor. Well, at least pretending to court her would be easier than expected. He had been rather disconcerted with the images of Sten, no, the Arishok in a dress and himself, dancing with said image. _I wonder if Cullen thinks she’s pretty, too._

It was only an hour later when the servant brought him a request that the Lady Trevelyan wished to see him earlier than was planned, providing he was amenable. Sending the woman back with his approval, Alistair set about pacing his study, stopping to casually lean against one bookshelf, rearranging his feet multiple times before deciding against it. Frowning, he sat back down in his chair, keeping his spine ramrod stiff. _Too formal? Maybe..._

The door swung open on silent hinges, the king heedless of the fact as he hopped up onto the edge of his desk, then back down, muttering under his breath all the while. Leather creaked as he returned to his chair, electing to sit sideways and drape his feet over the edge. A giggle startled him. “I, um, this isn’t, that is...”

Grimacing, Alistair returned his feet to the floor, running one hand through already tousled copper hair. _She probably thinks I’m an idiot now._

“Your Majesty,” she covered her mouth to hide her smile, but her eyes betrayed her. “Comfortable?”

“You know, I should say yes, seeing as how you would think the king’s chair should be the comfiest in the land, but it’s surprisingly hard. I think someone is conspiring against me. Probably trying to keep me awake while I read tax reports.”

“Have you been known to doze while performing your civic duty, sire?”

“Only when said duties are reeeally boring.”

They both grinned foolishly at each other, until the Seeker pointedly cleared her throat from behind the Inquisitor, making both leaders jump in place.

“Your Kingliness,” Varric swept into the room, pulling the human into a friendly embrace. “Hope you don’t mind us barging in before supper. Figured it’d be best to go ahead and get the plan rolling.”

“Of course,” Alistair nodded. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Lady Seeker, is everything alright? I know the rug isn’t the prettiest thing ever, but I haven’t had a chance to replace it.”

Cassandra jerked her head up from where she had been scowling at his floor, blushing furiously. “N-no, Your Majesty, my apologies. I was just lost in thought. Forgive me.”

“Lost in thought,” snorting, Sera smirked toward the Seeker. “She’s been like that ever since-”

“Sera. That is quite enough,” Cassandra hissed.

“Anyways,” Senaide glared at them both. “Tell us more about the threat here, Your- Alistair,” she amended at the king’s mock glare. 

He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin against fingers steepled together. “One of my other servants, someone that is trusted, alerted me to the abundance of new help within my staff. All of them with distinctive Tevinter accents that they’ve tried to mask, but not well enough, apparently. I still maintain some of my templar skills from my youth, and felt a few traces of foreign magic. I only employ one mage, a healer, and am familiar with her signature, I suppose you could call it? This was new. I’m not certain it is the Venatori specifically, but certainly, there are mages within my walls that should not be here.”

Humming in understanding, Senaide glanced over at Sera, who nodded. “Sera will join your staff, and try to ferret out some more information on your new help. She’s good at that sort of thing. I brought a few templars with me as well. I’m assigning them to you as your personal guard for the meantime.” Opening his mouth to protest, Senaide raised her palm to his face to interrupt. “My Commander’s orders. He was very insistent.”

 _Heh, he would be. Alright, for you love, I suppose._ “Alright. I’d hate for either of us to have to face the legendary Commander’s ire,” he winked at her. 

“His Majesty is most gracious,” she replied dryly. “And Cassandra has requested permission to join the guard rotation within the palace. She should also be able to sense if anyone is casting, if she gets close enough.”

“And Varric?”

“I’m just along to look pretty,” the dwarf grinned. “And as back-up, when the time comes to take down the bad guys.”

“And to make my cover plausible,” Senaide added.

“I was going to ask you about that. Trevelyan? I thought they were nobility from Ostwick?” Alistair asked, curious.

“They are. Our allies, actually. I have… borrowed their name. We should be out of here before word reaches them that an unknown relative of theirs is in the king’s company. I hope,” the Inquisitor grimaced. “Leliana and Josephine have assured me it was the best idea. My real surname is Ariss.”

“Senaide Ariss. Lovely name for a lovely woman,” he mused.

Varric choked on his laugh while Sera’s rang out loud and clear. “Does that really work on anyone, Your Kingliness?” Varric coughed, Senaide pounding him on his back none too lightly.

“Most people, yes,” Alistair grumbled. “So what to we do until we pinpoint the culprits?”

“We schmooze,” Senaide shrugged. “Cavort, roll around in the filthy excess display of lavish wealth, or whatever nobles do in their spare time.”

“Ah, yes,” Alistair nodded sagely. “Unfortunately, my chamber of solid gold and silks is currently being remodeled to make room for a display of jewels carved from pure despair and the tears of orphans and widows, so maybe you’d settle for a tour of the castle?”

“I suppose,” huffing a dramatic sigh, Senaide rose and took his proffered hand. “I heard you had a kennel here. I don’t suppose you could show me that first?”

“A woman after my own heart. Right this way, my lady.”

Laughing as the pair exited the room, neither noticed the resigned expression upon Varric’s face, nor the mask of pain he quickly hid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Alistair. He's my faaaaavorite nugget.


	5. Uncertainty Abounds

_Rising moonlight glints off blades of dull steel that clash in the small yard. It is the free hour, the precious few minutes a day when recruits are allowed to do as they wish, and yet these two manage to find themselves sparring, as per their usual. One is here for he wishes to serve to the best of his ability, and that means pushing his skills to the limit each day, and the other because this is the only thing he excels in._

_Someone laughs._

_“You keep leaving your left flank open,” Cullen teases. “Distracted, Theirin?_

_Alistair has confessed his true surname to the only one he names friend, expecting his reaction to be the same as everyone else’s. Disbelief, ridicule, perhaps groveling. Bracing himself, he was stunned into rare silence when Cullen had only nodded once, and asked if he was done polishing his armor for he needed to borrow the oil._

_“I should ask you the same, Rutherford,” Alistair taunts in return. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet twice tonight. And they say my head is in the clouds.”_

_Twisting his body down, Alistair’s back flashes before Cullen’s vision and all he sees for a moment is red. More scars, knotted lines, mark his friend’s skin. No matter how hard Alistair tries, the brothers always seem to find fault with his actions and push him until he breaks. They seem to delight in his anger, and Cullen does not understand why. All he can do is sneak off with his friend after the punishment is complete, and hold him as he rages and cries, smearing elfroot salve into the angry welts. What else can he do?_

_“Just thinking of how you’ll look covered in my dust when we’re through.” Swords arc through the air as each thrust is parried and returned, the beat of their hearts and blood roaring in their ears, sweat coating their bodies._

_“I’d still be the prettier one,” Alistair grunts, and then hisses as the flat of Cullen’s blade smacks against the inside of his elbow, loosening his grip on his sword so that it drops to the dirt. “Ugh. Fine. This one is yours.”_

_“Give me a minute, and we can go again. I think we have time for own more round before the bell.” Propping up his practice sword against the fence, Cullen grabs a ladle and drinks a bit of water from the barrel just outside the ring, then reaches back in for a second scoop that he douses himself with. “I can’t wait until winter. This heat is insufferable.”_

_Alistair splashes his own face with a bit of water in an attempt to cool down his flushed skin. Sneaking another glance at his friend, he feels a wave of shame engulf him as the pit in his stomach warms at the sight of the other boy’s lean muscle and the sodden tunic that clings to his toned form. The desire that had manifested a few months prior had only grown to his dismay, fanning and burning its way through his blood until some nights, it was all he could think about. But it was useless, for there was no way he would risk their friendship over his own feelings. He could be satisfied with just this._

_Cullen reaches for his shirt, and yanks the soaked material up over his head, draping it over a railing. “Alright, let’s go one more- Alistair? What’s wrong?”_

_A wooden ladle clatters to the ground as warm, earthy brown eyes and sun-kissed limbs freeze, staring with relentless focus at a space on Cullen’s torso. No spoken words break the oppressive silence, and with each passing second, Cullen’s head drifts lower, lower, until he sees the object of Alistair’s shock._

_A mark has appeared on his stomach, just underneath his right set of ribs._

_Shaky fingers raise to delicately trace smooth lines that spiral together in a design that he has seen hundreds of times._

_A rose, to match another’s._

_Alistair._

_For a span of heartbeats lost in time, neither of them dare to breathe, both of their gazes locked on that rose. Slowly, reluctant to seem too eager, they finally raise their heads to watch the other. Is this what the other wants? Are they happy? Angry? It’s rare, but sometimes soultwins reject the other. To hate the other half of your soul…_

_Cullen speaks first._

_“No one can ever know,” he whispers. They both know this to be true. For if the sisters or brothers find out they are matched, they’ll be separated within the week. No, their best odds at staying together involve keeping their silence._

_“Then,” Alistair dares to hope, “You…?”_

_“Always,” Cullen whispers. He had not realized just how beautiful Alistair was until that moment when a radiant smile spreads across his handsome features. Relief, and a sense of belonging is all either of them know._

_It will not be easy, but Cullen swears to find a way to forever hide his soulmark from the prying eyes of others. They will not ever be able to have a normal relationship, but with any luck, they might at least be assigned to the same Circle and perhaps allowed to keep their friendship. It is better than nothing._

_Luck. Shifting his foot, Cullen felt the coin that his brother had given him, now sewn into his shoe for safekeeping. Please, he silently begged the Maker. Don’t let them separate us. Shyly, he takes Alistair’s hand, rough like his own, but infinitely more precious._

_It wasn’t enough, would never be enough, but for now, it will have to do._

***

Senaide hadn’t expected the King of Ferelden to be so charming. He had a self-deprecating air about him that irked her for some reason she couldn’t define even as he made her laugh, since she could clearly see his intelligence and wit in his dealings with the various people they met during her tour of the palace. His people adored him, and it was easy to see why.

She sat atop her horse, a smile on her lips as she watched him talk with a few of the laborers that were working to repair a house in what appeared to be the lower class sector of the city. Clapping one of the men on the back, heedless of the sweat and dirt that streaked the worker's simple homespun shirt, Alistair laughed heartily at whatever the man had just said, the latter grinning fit to burst at the attention. He always set aside one day of the week, Alistair had told her, to visit various parts of the city and check up on his people in person, and it just so happened that the day after she arrived was one of those days. And Senaide had readily agreed to accompany him.

It was a rare opportunity for her to just roam a city like this, without people fawning over her every step, crying out to ask for her blessing, straining to just touch her arm, jostling to catch a glimpse of the anchor on her hand, all things that continued to solidly unnerve her. With the mark securely shielded by the glove Dagna had created for her, Senaide was now no different than anyone else, save that she accompanied the king. She almost felt guilty to be here, relaxing and enjoying Alistair’s company, while her companions were back in the palace working the jobs of the stations they had assumed, and the rest of her people were back in Skyhold, preparing for the upcoming assault on Adamant. But this was necessary, the facade. _So I might as well enjoy it._

With a last parting handshake, Alistair vaulted back onto his horse with an easy grace and turned to her with an apologetic smile. “Well now, my patient lady, I believe I have seen all I was scheduled to for today. What say you we take the scenic route back to the palace?”

“That sounds perfect, Your Majesty.” Sharing a comfortable silence, the pair ambled through the narrow streets, four of the guards trailing them at a respectable distance. Sounds of a crowd filtered down through the alley they passed through, and suddenly, the path opened up to a sprawling market, colorful tents crammed into every nook and corner with the powerful voices of merchants hawking their wares ringing out above the din. It was chaos, pure and simple, wholly unlike the tidy, restrained air of the marketplace of Val Royeaux. Senaide found she much preferred the liveliness of Denerim.

Dismounting, Alistair handed his reins to one of his men and held out a hand to help her do the same. “I know it’s loud,” he bent over, practically shouting in her ear to be heard, “The city’s been packed since all the refugees started arriving. Don’t let go of my hand, alright?”

Gripping his palm tightly, Senaide pressed herself closer to the king as he began to slowly make his way through the crowd. It would not do to get lost here, for if she did, she doubted she could make her way back to the palace by the strength of her own memory.

No one took notice of their monarch, for without his crown or any of the clothing that carried the crest of his house, he was just another noble, perhaps a wealthier merchant, give the plainness of his tunic. A blessing for him that was quickly turning into a curse for her, for the people around them pressed against them, closing her in until she felt like she was drowning. Her breaths came more rapidly, her heartbeat hammering against her chest and one hand flew to her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get air into her lungs, she was choking and-

Alistair pulled her into a side alley that was mercifully devoid of a single soul. He had felt her hand tightening around his almost painfully, and cursed himself when he realized what was happening. “Hey, Senaide, deep breath. Look at me, okay?” She tentatively raised her eyes to his, her gaze still slightly glazed over. “Breathe in. And out. There we go.”

With his hands on her shoulders, Senaide slowly regained control of her body and mind, sucking in deep lungfuls of empty air. His eyes were so pretty, she thought. Not just brown, like she had originally thought. They almost sparkled with a light from within, with specks of gold dancing around his iris. “I’m sorry,” she whispered after several moments. “That hasn’t happened to me in a long time.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he shook his head. “I should have realized, my… friend also suffers from claustrophobia. I promise I’m not usually this heartless.”

“I don’t think a single person could ever call you heartless, Alistair,” she laughed, her voice still breathless. “You didn’t know. No harm done. Although, could we maybe take a different route back?”

“Of course.” Poking his head out of the alley, his face lit up as he saw where they were. “We’re actually near one of my favorite shops,” he jerked his head towards a sparsely populated corner of the street. “It’s never packed in there. Would you like to go see?”

“Lead on, ser king,” she slipped her hand back into his with a smile that made him flush.

“My uncle used to take me here when I was younger. I used to love this place, but I haven’t been back since…” His face clouded over. “Well, since I was just a Grey Warden. Right before I became king, actually.”

Alistair pushed open a weathered door, hand covering the peeling paint that read ‘Wonders of Thedas’, the letter W hanging on by the barest sliver. Dim, musty light greeted the pair, the far shadowy corners illuminated by flickering candlelight while motes of dust danced in the sunbeams at the front. Shelves of the most random assortment of odds and ends greeted them, baubles and trinkets and accessories of dubious origins. Running a hand over an engraved brass box covered in unfamiliar runes, he smiled as he caught sight of a doll in the shape of a knight.

“I had a golem doll from here, a long time ago. It was my favorite thing in the entire world. Tabris used to find other little figurines on our travels and gave them to me. She even made me puppets for Satinalia once,” he chuckled at the fond memory, before casting a sheepish in Senaide’s direction. “Not that they were dolls. More technically figurines. Definitely not for playing with. And the puppets were, ah…”

One slender hand paused atop an ornate locket that was far too gaudy to be pretty. Glancing up at the king, the faintest smile crossed her lips. “I collect little animals,” she offered. “Little creatures made of ceramic or iron or whatever. Leliana got me a glass nug for my nameday the other month. Sometimes I talk to it.”

His face broke out into a wide grin, tinged with a hint of relief that she was yet again not laughing as he had expected. “Does it talk back?”

“Only when I drink too much Qunari liquor.”

A soft chucked huffed from his lips as he picked up another trinket and held it aloft for her to see. “Do you have a fox yet?”

She reached out to touch it, running a thumb over the smooth silver, studying the two dull topazes set into the head for eyes. “I do not. Do you think he’d be happy with the others?”

“Only one way to find out.” Alistair called the ancient shopkeeper over and pulled out a few bits of silver from his pocket. “A present, for my lady.” He presented the fox to her with an extravagant flourish that would have made any Orlesian proud. Senaide said so, and the king snorted. “I am a king, you know. I do have some knowledge of how to behave myself in a courtly setting.”

“I never said you didn’t,” she smiled, her fingers brushing the leathers of his gloves as she took the fox from him. “Thank you for the gift, Your Majesty. I shall treasure it always.”

Still holding her hand, Alistair almost seemed to be scowling down at his gloves. Her fingers tightened on his, and his head jerked up, throwing himself out of his daze. “Ah, good. That is… good. Um. Shall we head back to the palace now? I know you need to meet with your people, see what they’ve found, and don’t worry, we won’t take the same route back, but that way might take longer, or I can have my guards clear a path if you want to get there as soon as possible, because I can do that you know, being the king and all and Maker’s breath.” A sharp breath sucked in between his lips as he finally clamped his lips shut.

Somehow, she still didn’t laugh at him, merely slipped her arm through his and gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze. “The long way around is fine,” Senaide murmured. “I know you don’t like drawing that much attention to yourself if you don’t have to.”

Swallowing to force the rising tide of slightly hysterical babble back down into this throat, Alistair led her in uncharacteristic silence back into the sunlight, and down to where his men waited with their mounts. Her hand gripped the saddle a bit tighter than necessary as she swung back up. 

Was it something she said? He had been so open and warm with her just minutes prior, all of his emotions flitting across his face in rapid succession, but now, his eyes were shuttered, mouth guarded. Should she have asked him to take the shorter route back? Or perhaps she shouldn’t have made assumptions about what he did and didn’t like. Should she apologize, or would that make it worse?

Unsure of how to make things right, Senaide rode a few paces just behind the king back to his compound, electing to take in the sights of city instead and listening as the guard that rode to her right amicably chatted with her about the various histories of the places they passed. She only listened with half an ear, the rest of her mind swirling with endless thoughts and desires.

How long had it been since she had taken a lover? Months, well over a year now, at least. Since falling into Thedas via that fatal accident, there had been no time for such things, her entire existence devoted to learning how to stay alive. But now, now… She had time for other pursuits, in between the whole saving the world bit. Stolen afternoons baking cookies with Sera, or snuggling up in a hidden nook of Skyhold with Cassandra and Dorian and a few bottles of wine and books for them to share. Stealing away to the barn to lie in a pile of hay to just relax, comforted by the sounds of Blackwall’s cheerful whistling as he worked on a new toy for one of the numerous children that ran wild around the keep. Lounging on a chaise in Solas' rotunda, watching the elf as he painted and told her stories of the Fade while Cole rested with his head on her lap. Laughing and carousing with Bull and Varric and the rest of the Chargers in the tavern, learning every sort of dirty song that they could remember. And there were a lot of dirty songs between the lot of them.

But still, every night when she climbed the endless flights of stairs to her room, Senaide returned to an empty room, and a cold bed. Of course, there were plenty of those who would be willing to keep her warm for a few hours, and indulge, nobles and soldiers alike. But it wasn’t what she wanted, not a person who would want to lay with her solely because she was the Inquisitor. She had hoped her Commander… Well. It was obvious he wasn’t interested, not in anything more than a physical relationship, judging by what Varric had told her. And she wanted something more than a casual fling. More than being a trophy for some noble to crow over.

Alistair might understand. If he were interested. _He seems flustered around me, nervous when he talks sometimes. But that could be just because of who I am. It feels like more than that, though. Is it? Or am I so lonely that I’m imagining things now? Maybe he’s just being friendly, and I’m misconstruing his actions._ Brushing a hand over the pocket against her hip, she felt the shape of the silver fox. _But then again, maybe I’m not. Varric knows him better than I. Maybe I’ll ask him later tonight._

Back in the palace, Senaide mader her excuses to a still distracted king, and returned to her room only to hear a knock on her door scant seconds after she closed it.

“Come in,” she called, throwing her riding habit over a chair. The clothes that the nobility wore were ridiculous, Senaide decided. She missed her plain leggings and tunics that she normally wore around Skyhold. The outfits Josephine had curated for her for this trip had far too much fabric for her liking.

“Hey Quiz-tits,” chirped a familiar voice. Snorting, Senaide poked her head out of her room.

“Come help me with this, will you, Sera?”

“You look ridiculous,” the elf cackled as she stepped into the bedroom, watching with glee while the Inquisitor chased herself in circles trying to unfasten the myriads of tiny buttons along her back, like a dog chasing its tail.

“I know,” she groaned. “I don’t think this is a one person job.”

“‘Course not. That’s what the little people are for, yeah? Speaking of littles, lot of gossip goin’ around. The new servants keep to themselves, don’t really talk to anyone. Definitely fishy. Not like the others at all. No one else trusts them, and everyone’s been takin’ turns keepin’ an eye on them. They all seem to like the king, and don’t want him to get hurt.” She sounded almost surprised by that.

“Alistair is pretty grounded and open.” _And charming and devastingly handsome_. “It’s no wonder his people like him.”

“I guess for a nob, he’s okay.” Flicking free the last button, Sera crossed the room over to the wardrobe and rummaged around through the piles of dresses, pulling a few out to examine them before tossing them on the floor with a disgusted grunt. “Here, wear this one.” She yanked a gown of navy blue silk out of the closet, and Senaide blanched.

The neckline of the formfitting dress plunged almost to her bellybutton, with a piece of lace inset into the opening to preserve what little modesty was left. “Isn’t this, um, a bit too… Orlesian,” the Inquisitor hedged. “I don’t want to scandalize the court.”

“King Nob will love it,” Sera grinned impishly. “Because you need to get laid. And this dress will help. So wear it, yeah?”

“I do not need to get laid,” Senaide hissed. “And I’m not wearing that.” Reaching back into the dresses, she pulled out a simple gown of dark plum, edged in a simple golden embroidered geometric pattern, with a much higher neckline that the navy lace. “This one will be fine.”

“Tch, no fun. Alright, I’m headed back out. Let you know if anything changes, just keep your ears open. Food should be safe, I’ve been working the kitchens all day. Later,” tossing a wave, Sera sauntered towards the door, yelping as it swung open. “Tits on a stick! A little warning maybe? Like a knock?”

“Like you ever knock yourself,” came the frosty retort. “Is the Inquisitor in? Ah, there you are.” Cassandra stepped inside and immediately strode up to Senaide and motioned for her to turn around so she could fasten the laces. “I’ve felt a few instances of magic during my patrols. It’s random, however, and not following any predictable pattern yet. And every time I go to investigate, I find nothing and no one.”

“Well that’s frustrating,” Senaide wheezed as the Seeker yanked tightly on the cords and bound her waist. “Air, please!”

“Oh! Apologies,” Cassandra blushed. Blushed. “I admit, I’ve been rather distracted.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s... “ Biting her lip, the dark-haired warrior eased up on the laces and let the boning of the dress back out a little, before tying it off. “We are friends.”

“Is that a question, or a declaration?” Senaide giggled. “Of course, we’re friends.”

Turning away, Cassandra pulled out the velvet roll of jewelry that had also been sent along with the dresses and ran her calloused fingers over the delicate chains within, before selecting a long crystal pendant and fastening it around Senaide’s neck. “Do you remember the night on the way here, when I told you of soulmarks? How both seekers and templars have theirs branded over? And how we still remember what they once looked like?” Senaide nodded. “I know who has the other mark.” Her voice came out as a faint whisper, wholly out of character with her normally brusque and decisive tone. 

“Varric.”

“It’s- Wait. You _knew_?!”

“I guessed, from the way you reacted when you saw his that night, and how you’ve acted since. What do you want to do about it?” Spinning around, Senaide rested her hands on Cassandra’s shoulders, the latter slumped over and leaning against the carved bedpost. Without the furniture’s support, it was entirely possible that the Seeker would dissolve into a puddle of confusion on the rug.

“I… I do not know.”

“Do you love him?”

“No! I- I care for him. Slightly. Tolerate his existence would perhaps be a better descriptor. Nothing like love, or affection, or- It’s _Varric_. He is infuriating and underhanded and selfish and-” Cassandra furiously paced the length of the bedroom. “Arrogant and childish and I cannot be soultwinned to such a man!”

“He has pretty fantastic chest hair.”

“I- I would not know.” Cassandra’s faced burned brightly in the torchlight. “It is acceptable, if you are attracted to that sort of thing. Which I am not. Not in the slightest.”

“Of course,” Senaide pressed her lips together to hide her smirk. “Are you going to tell him?”

“No. I should. But I can’t, he’s… And I’m…” Her voice trailed off helplessly. “Maker save me. Varric Tethras is my soultwin.”

A choked cough from the door made both of the women whirl around, Cassandra’s hand darting to the pommel of her sword and-

"Uh, sorry. No one answered when I knocked, but then I heard voices and..."

She stared. And bolted for the door with a strangled yelp.

Leaving Senaide standing in the middle of her room with eyesbrows slightly raised, along with a stunned dwarf, scratching the back of his head.

Varric worked his mouth several times, but for once, it seemed he could not find the right words. Except for-

“Well… shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm cackling over Cass and Varric.


	6. To Stand and Disrupt

_It is easy to fall into a routine of sorts. Neither leaves the other’s company unless it is absolutely necessary. Side by side, from dawn until lights out, they take their meals together, train together, study together. Only at night are they separated, their bunks at opposite ends of the dormitory, but somehow, as each boy lays awake staring at the ceiling into the small hours of the morning, they know that the other is thinking of them, and smiling._

_They are careful to not show affection in the presence of others, although the other boys surely suspect something. But no one speaks a word, for relationships of their sort are common enough within the group of teenaged lads. They all know it is temporary, merely a way to blow off steam and youthful exuberance._

_Except it is so much more._

_Summer fades into crisp autumn, and the snowfall blankets the land in quiet magnificence. The boys are content with shy glances and secret caresses when no one else is watching, Alistair’s head resting on Cullen’s shoulder as they sit against a broken section of wall with open books that are neglected in favor of savoring the sensation of holding the other’s hand and counting the little myriads of scars that litter their skin. Gloves lay useless and forgotten at their feet, half buried in the snow._

_Silently, Cullen traces invisible swirls down Alistair’s forearm, smiling to himself as gooseflesh prickles along his skin. He wonders what will become of them, whether or not they will be sent to the same Circle. It is likely they will both be sent to Kinloch, but it isn’t unheard of to send templars to other Circles around Thedas. The Free Marches, or Orlais, or Nevarra. Maybe even Antiva. Were these the last years they would have together? Unbidden, Cullen grips Alistair’s arm a bit tighter._

_“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Alistair glances up into amber eyes in which he could spend hours drowning._

_“Just thinking of the future,” comes a quiet murmur._

_Alistair snorts, and shifts so that he is eye to eye with Cullen. “You’re always thinking of the future.”_

_A frown creases Cullen’s brow. “It’s good to have plans for multiple scenarios, so that no matter what may come to pass, you are prepared.”_

_“Now you sound like a general. Gonna leave the templars and become a hero in the army, Rutherford? Maybe be a commander one day?” Alistair teases._

_“Maker, no. A templar is all I ever want to be,” Cullen scoffs._

_“Templar,” Alistair makes a moue of distaste at the word. “Right.”_

_Lifting his hand in his own, Cullen presses his lips to Alistair’s knuckles, breath hitching in his lungs at the sight of warm, brown eyes widening in- fear? Surprise? ...Desire? “I know you don’t want to be a templar,” he whispers against his skin. “If I could choose a different path for you, I would.”_

_“I know,” comes the quiet reply. “And that knowledge is enough. With any luck, we’ll be assigned to the same Circle. And that will be that.”_

_“Alistair…”_

_Snowflakes fling off copper locks as Alistair shakes his head, and raises his free hand to cup Cullen’s cheek with a tender smile. “It’s alright. You’re here right now, and so am I. Enough about the future. Live in the present with me.”_

_“Alistair…” Cullen repeats again, but this time more hopeful than dismayed. “I want…” He leans in closer._

_Eyes flicker to mouths as tongue dart out to wet lips in anticipation. Alistair breaks first, and with a gasp at his own boldness, closes the distance between them and kisses his love for the first time. Just a brief meeting of lips is all it is, over before it really begins, and Alistair pulls back in surprise and embarrassment. “I, um-”_

_The rest of his stammered explanation is lost to the void as Cullen rushes back forward to meet him, one hand sliding behind Alistair’s head to tug him closer. It is messy, and entirely too wet, and neither of them care for their hearts are about to burst with the elation and a swell of emotions that don't entirely fit in their youthful chests quite yet._

_“Um, that was nice,” Cullen mutters sheepishly when they eventually pull apart, one hand awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck._

_“Nice,” Alistair grins. “I was thinking more along the lines of fantastical. Transcendent. Phenomenal. Unsurpassable.”_

_“Someone’s been reading the dictionary again,” Cullen snorts._

_Laughter bubbles up from his stomach from the sheer joy of it all, and Alistair throws himself forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Cullen and together they fall into the snow, pressing kisses wherever they both can reach between giggles and smiles._

_Home, Alistair thinks. He never really had one of his own, or a family, but here, laying on the cold, icy, wet ground in the fading daylight behind an old shed, he’s finally found it, with Cullen._

_Home._

***

He’s pretty good at reading people by now. Years of knowing when to dodge the arlessa as a child, learning when to hide away to avoid her wrath, followed by the almost decade at the monastery and testing the brothers’ ire there has given him a fairly decent ability to judge a person’s mood by their body language. A tic here, a stiffened spine, a quick glance away- it’s all been refined into almost an artform ever since he became king. It’s how he’s learned to survive.

So he knows that the Inquisitor is upset. With him. Or maybe upset wasn’t the right word. Just… confused. Then again, so was he.

With a muffled groan, Alistair sank lower into his chair, his elbows resting on the surface of his desk. Sighing, he held up the ring he had been toying with to his eye level. It wasn't anything special or ornate, just a plain band. But inside, carved on smooth metal, there’s a small etched inscription.

_The fire at the heart of my world._

Alistair clutched the ring tightly in his fist and pressed it to his forehead. Nothing was making sense anymore. He had wanted to gather Senaide up in his arms in that little, dusty shop and kiss her until they were both senseless. He wanted to do so much more. And not out of any physical yearnings, although that was there too. 

No, it was because he wanted to see her happy. Bask in her smile, hear her laugh. The same way he desired Cullen’s happiness. This was impossible.

 _Can- can a soultwin’s bond be broken?_ He paled at the very thought. Shoving his sleeve up his arm, he slumped in unbridled relief at the sight of his mark, unchanged as always, the same rose that had covered his skin since he had turned fifteen. No, that was unheard of. Once you were soultwinned, it was for the rest of your life.

 _But wouldn’t it be better if it could?_ A traitorous voice whispered in his head. _You might have a chance with her, she could stay with you. You could have love beside you instead of halfway across Thedas._

 _No._ Shoving himself away from the desk in a sudden fury, Alistair stomped to the window and braced himself against the frame, his chest heaving in anxiety. He _loved_ Cullen. Had loved him before their marks had declared them bound. There was no one else he wanted, not now, not ever.

Closing his eyes, he summoned a memory of Cullen the last time he had seen the man, just before the Conclave began and all hell broke loose. Andraste’s flames, how he had taken his breath away. The curls he had adored so much and spent hours playing with had been smoothed back, sleek and restrained, the scar on his lips healed to devastating effect. The trauma his loved had survived had finally begun to start healing and it showed underneath the fading dark, worn circles and sallow skin.

_Think of how he smelled, how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The taste of his skin, the feel of his body._

Relaxing against the wall, Alistair hummed with the mental image he created, feeling warmth flood his limbs. Until a flash of green interrupted his daydream.

Her eyes, darker than emeralds. The mark on her hand, that he had seen once when he had asked her to show him in the privacy of his study. He had noted the way she looked at him that afternoon while they toured his city, and he was willing to bet that if he had tried to kiss her, she would have let him.

What would it mean? To him, to her? They could just enjoy each other for the time while she was here, couldn’t they? Or would she want more? Like he wanted more? Never before had he wished this much that Cullen was here. A letter wouldn’t suffice right now, Alistair needed to talk to him, see his face. 

_Maybe it’s just because it’s been so long since he was here. Really here, with me._

There had been other times, between the day Alistair had been conscripted into the Grey Wardens, and the visit prior to the Conclave that they had seen each other. Kinloch. Kirkwall. But there had been too much pain, too much terror and anger. The man he loved was buried beneath all the horrors he had experienced. It wasn’t until that last time that he had caught a glimpse of the boy Cullen used to be, years ago.

_And now he’s learning to heal, and soon Senaide will close the Breach, and Cullen will be free of the Inquisition and then- Then he promised to come here. And stay with me._

Slipping the ring back onto his finger, Alistair smiled at the idea of Cullen being here in the palace. No more sneaking out into seedy inns in disguise, no more hurried moments in cramped closets. They would still have to be discreet about their love, but still. It was leaps and bounds better than where they were now.

“Sire? A message for you.” A servant knocked at his door and bowed, slipping a small piece of parchment onto the desk. “From Lady Trevelyan.”

Alistair nodded his thanks, and flipped open the note. _Bring a dagger to supper tonight. Maybe a sword. Maybe two swords. And eat nothing unless Sera serves it to you._ Her people must have found something. His eyes flickered to the bottom of the page. _Oh, Varric says no sword. But yes dagger. Maybe get one of your men to carry an extra sword?_

Crumpling the paper and tossing it in the hearth, Alistair sent up a silent prayer to the Maker that this mess would be soon concluded and that things could go back to the same, dull normal he had grown accustomed to. 

And that Inquisitor Senaide Ariss would leave soon and take her tempting charm with her.

But was that what he truly wanted?

 _When has what I wanted ever really mattered_ , Alistair scoffed to himself. The templars, being conscripted, forced onto a throne- everything had been decided for him. So what was one more thing that was denied to him? _At least I have Cullen. Maker, I miss him._

Shaking off the melancholia that had settled around his shoulders, Alistair pushed himself through the rest of reports on his desk until he had just a few minutes left before the supper bell. As he jogged the corridor down to his chamber and pulled on a more suitable tunic, he wondered who had started the tradition of dressing up for a meal. The shirt he had been wearing earlier was perfectly fine, if a little dusty from his ride that morning through town, but he knew Rodric would have a fit if he showed up to the table wearing it.

_Probably Orlesians. Damn them._

A quick rinse and a fresh change of clothes later, Alistair made his way to the smaller dining room that he normally utilized on a daily basis, the larger, more lavish chamber reserved for state affairs and visiting dukes and princes and other important people that he was supposed to impress. To be perfectly honest, he preferred to take his meals in his study alone, because somehow, even after a decade of being king, he still couldn’t remember which fork was for which course. Also, he sometimes talked with his mouth full, and had apparently scandalized more than a few nobles over the course of his reign. _It’s like eating with a bunch of Morrigans and Wynnes. Maker forbid._

But whatever scandal Alistair could have committed by being a common barbarian was nothing compared to the sight of the Inquisitor, leaning against the wall opposite the table, staring out of window, in a navy gown with deep slashes and cleverly placed lace. His throat went dry. _She must have been what all of the whispers I passed in the hall was about. Maker, that is…_

Entirely inappropriate for Ferelden’s court. He loved it. Snapping his jaw shut so as to not appear the boorish oaf he felt, Alistair straightened his shoulders and stepped into the room, forcing himself to walk with a regal gait and not just stumble forward in his admiration and lust. “Lady Trevelyan,” he swept her a bow.

She didn’t respond, or even look at him. Not until that blonde elf she traveled with passed her and hissed under her breath, “That’s you, you dolt!” 

Senaide jumped. “Oh! I, uh, pardon me, Your Majesty. I was lost in thought.”

Smiling at the bright blush that stained her cheeks, Alistair took her hand in his and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “It’s no matter. I’ve often been told I’m a master at stealth.”

Her fingers flexed around his forearm as she glanced up at him, one eyebrow cocked upwards, and snorted entirely unbecoming of a lady. “Is that so? I believe Sister Nightingale would beg to differ. I’ve heard some stories about your time during the Blight that were quite… contradictory.”

“Bloody Leliana,” he muttered, with a mock grimace. “What did she tell you? No, never mind, I’m not sure I want to know. Oh look! Food!”

Senaide giggled as she took the seat that Alistair held out for her, the perfect picture of grace and genteel nobility. He almost didn’t see the faint flicker of her eyes to the side, the imperceptible nod that her elven friend gave her, almost missed the slight nod from the Seeker, dressed in the standard uniform of his guard, standing underneath a lit sconce. He steeled his spine and found reassurance in the subtle press of his dagger against his calf. Whatever would happen, would happen tonight.

The conversation turned toward mundane things, the predicted state of the crops this season, ramblings regarding the weather in Starkhaven, whether or not she had tried an Antivan spicy fish recipe that was Alistair’s current obsession. Senaide was for all appearances unconcerned with his impending doom, giggling and flirting with him, for the benefit of the onlookers, he sternly told himself. 

Poking a few times at the potatoes a servant had placed before him, Alistair shuffled the food around his plate, making sure only to eat what Sera gave him. He noticed how the man waiting on him tensed when he didn’t take a bite off of the other plate, and from the corner of his eye, saw the terse, furtive glances he gave another woman as she entered the room, bearing several slices of pie on a platter.

Alistair took a deep, appreciative sniff as she set the plate down. It was his favorite, he realized with a barely restrained whimper, crisp golden apples layered with cinnamon and a perfectly flaky crust. These Venatori were not playing fair. Fork still in hand, he prodded the slice in front of him. How much would it hurt to just take one bite? Surely there wasn’t enough poison or whatever was in there to kill him with just one, tiny piece. Right? He glanced up.

From across the table, Senaide’s eyes narrowed at the king. _Don’t_ , she mouthed. “Your Majesty,” her dress rustled as she pushed her chair back, “I believe that was the best meal your kitchen has served yet. I’m positively sure I couldn’t take another bite.”

“Yes. Another bite.” He stared wistfully down at the gooey, carmelized apples. It hadn’t even been that long since he had apple pie. Maker, what was wrong with him? A phantom taste lingered on his tongue. 

Just to his left, Varric coughed. “Your Majesty, I’ve heard your gardens here are splendid. Lady Trevelyan, have you had a chance to see them yet?”

“No, Master Tethras, I haven’t. Perhaps when the king is _done_ ,” he barely heard the emphasis she placed upon that word, “He would be so kind as to show me?”

“Hmm? Yes, of course.” Andraste save him, it looked so delectable. If he just took one apple-

“Oy, is he daft?” He heard the elf hiss right before a platter crashed to the ground, the silver ringing out against the stone floor.

“They know!” Eyes blown wide, a woman slowly backed away from the table. “He knows,” she cried out in warning as she fled back into the kitchen.

Varric groaned beside him, cradling his forehead in one hand. “Well, shit.” And pulled out his crossbow from under the table, Senaide sliding twin daggers from underneath her skirts with a pained sigh.

“Lady Trev- Senaide, I...” Alistair shook his head to clear it. Strange, it almost felt as if he was under a fog. He hadn’t felt anything sinister here. Unless…

“It was enchanted,” Cassandra stepped to his side, glaring down at the offending pie with enough force to set it aflame. “And cleverly so. I can barely detect the trace of magic covering it. Your Majesty, your guards will keep you safe out here. We’ll go and-”

“Absolutely not. If we’re fighting, then so I am. They dare to come into my home and ensnare me? Poison me? Put my homeland at risk?” Alistair snarled, the spell having faded from his mind. He could see clearly now and his face burned a crimson red, embarrassment warring with fury. To think, a Grey Warden and king almost laid low by bloody _pie_. Morrigan would have loved it. Pushing himself away from the table, he called for a sword and shield, one of his men handing his own over with all haste. “I would see this through, Seeker.”

“As you wish.”

“Varric, and you four,” Senaide waved over a few guards, her stride barely slowing as she strode towards the far door. “Guard His Majesty’s back. The rest of you, with me.” One man opened his mouth to protest a simple noble lady giving him orders, then clamped it shut again when she pulled off her glove. The anchor crackled and flared in the torchlight, casting shadows on the walls.

“It’s the Inquisitor!”

“The Herald of Andraste…”

Ignoring the whispers, Senaide kept her steady pace until Cassandra gasped, and yelled, “They’re casting! We must hurry!”

Alistair tightened his grip on his borrowed sword. These Venatori would pay.

***

Moonlight spilled over the wild roses that grew haphazardly in this part of the garden. The gardeners kept the rest of the hedges in neat, even rows but king refused them access here, preferring this little alcove to the manicured greenery. Unrestrained, free to grow wherever they pleased- it gave him pleasure to see life grow unfettered here, even as he was bound in his own cage. A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. How different would his life have been if he had stayed a Warden? 

_You’d probably be dead by now_ , Alistair snorted to himself as he slowly strolled along the gravel path. 

He saw her hair first, loosened and unbound around her shoulders, falling in soft, ebony waves and swaying in the breeze. At some point after the battle, Senaide had slipped out of that beautiful, tempting dress and donned clothes in which her comfort was evident. Plain brown leather leggings, a loose maroon blouse, no other jewelry save a golden chain around her neck, the pendant of which was hidden between the swell of her breasts. An ensemble fit for a regular commoner, perhaps a merchant or tradeswoman. Not a lady, definitely not the most powerful woman in all of Thedas.

“I see you found the gardens without my help,” he called out.

Senaide paused, one hand hovering over a full bloom. “I got lost a few times,” she confessed, the hint of a laugh behind her words. “There was this maze, and I thought it would be fun. I had to climb a tree to find my way out.”

“That’s why I avoid that part of the garden,” Alistair chuckled. “I can relate far too well. So,” his boots crunched against the rocks as he approached her, leaning against the rough trunk of a tree that would bear apples in a few more months, “Tonight was fun.”

“Fun.” The Inquisitor turned to stare at him with wide eyes.

“Fun,” he nodded. “Fireballs flying, demons, arrows and swords everywhere. Just like the old times. I had almost forgotten what it was like.”

“Anytime you feel nostalgic for a demon or two, you’re always welcome to join me at a rift,” Senaide shook her head. “ _Fun_ , he says. My Qunari mercenary would love you.”

“He sounds like a man of impeccable taste.”

Her laugh rang out in the night air, clear and melodic. “It’s too bad you’re a king, and not a nobody like the rest of us,” she teased. “You’d fit right in with us.”

Suddenly, Alistair was struck with the intense pain of a missed lifetime. To be a common foot soldier, away from the nobility, with no decisions more complicated than what would he have for supper? And he could be with Cullen. He lifted his gaze from where it had drifted into space, aware that she was watching him intently. “I wish,” he murmured with a wistful sigh. “It sounds lovely. But I’m here, and, well, you’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you, Lady Nobody?”

Senaide nodded. “Most of the Venatori have been cleared here, and your people can handle weeding out the rest. I’m needed back in Skyhold, we march on Adamant in another week. Your Warden friends have all lost their collective mind.”

“So it seems.” Another thing he wished he could help with. To fight alongside the Inquisition, help his brothers and sisters see reason. What were they thinking? Senaide’s eyes were still watching him, dark and full of sympathy. A particularly chill wind blew over his neck. Lonely. That’s what he felt now, and it was overwhelming. His throat swelled and he was filled with a great need to hold someone tight, and to be held in return. And since it couldn’t be Cullen tonight, why not this lovely creature before him who smiled with such warmth and tenderness? Alistair took a step closer until he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. Carefully, he reached out and lifted her hand in his and raised it to his mouth, letting his lips barely graze over the sensitive skin there. “Senaide.” Her eyes widened at the timbre of his voice. “I… That is, will you…?”

Indecision warred with desire in her face, and just as Alistair was about to apologize and beat a hasty retreat, Senaide surged forward, her arms wrapping around his neck, and pressed her lips to his. His mind went blank as he clutched her close, running his hands over the firm muscles of her back, threading his fingers up into her hair. Skin softer than velvet, smoother than silk- all he could think about was how sweet she tasted, and how long it had been since he had last felt desire like this, how right it-

Wait. That was impossible. Alistair broke free with a sharp gasp, staring at her as she panted in confusion, her cheeks rosy and lips glistening in the moonlight. It was only supposed to feel like that with his soulmate, with Cullen. How could he want her just the same as his love? Was this- was he _cheating_? It certainly felt as close to an emotional breach of trust as anything else he'd ever experienced.

“A-Alistair? What…?”

He hated himself then. For feeling like this, making her look at him like she was, with something beyond simple lust, and all the while, Cullen was back in Skyhold, alone and Maker forgive him, he was the worst kind of scum.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair shuddered. He had never considered himself to be particularly brave, but neither had he ever thought himself a coward. Until tonight. “I’m sorry, I can’t-”

Spinning wildly on his heel, Alistair ran away.

Leaving the Inquisitor standing alone amidst the roses, wondering if she had misinterpreted him, wondering if she had offended him, wondering what she did wrong. It wasn’t until the next day when she was back on the road, after saying an extremely proper and stilted farewell to His Majesty, that she understood.

Everything made sense now. The King of Ferelden and the Commander, Varric explained, were soultwins. Neither would be able to offer her anything more than simple friendship.

Gods, she was such a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay another chapter! Taking a break from fanfic this month to concentrate on an original scifi story I have for Nanowrimo. ^_^ But I might still work on this a bit when I need a break.


	7. To Relinquish Hope

_“You’re doing well so far,” Cullen offers, only to receive a derisive snort in return._

_“Fine,” Alistair scoffs. “I’ve landed face down in the dirt more times than I can count.”_

_“But considering your opponents, you’ve still done admirably,” Cullen argues, unwilling to let his love stew in his self-loathing. “Ser Talrew is a war hero, and Ser Eryhn is legendary for her skills. You’re the only one to get as far as you have.”_

_“Load of good it does me,” Alistair grumbles, yet still he smiles through his frustration. Neither of them have been in particularly serene moods these last few months. For they are older now, and Alistair is eighteen. Past the age where he should have taken his vows, yet for his habit of tending toward disruptive behaviors, it has been pushed off. For far too long. This is his last reprieve. Once the Grey Warden, a man named Duncan, departs the city, Alistair will take his vows and become a full templar._

_And leave Cullen. Possibly for good, although neither will know until the next year when Cullen becomes of age and takes his own vows. The uncertainty hangs around them like a thundercloud, making them twitch and rage and sulk all at once._

_“Just one more match tomorrow.”_

_Alistair barely hears him, all of his focus on the oily rag in his hand and the blade that rests in his lap. His movements are vicious, as if he can possibly manage to channel all of his problems into this chore._

_Sighing, Cullen leaves him alone for now. He knows it is impossible to stir Alistair from these moods when the fancy strikes him. Standing up, he retreats to his bunk._

_The morning proves to have little effect on Alistair’s dismal outlook, the young recruit still dragging his feet and all but pouting as he waits for his slot in the tourney. He does not stand still and straight, as Cullen and the rest of the future templars do, a model of Chantry patience and virtue, but instead slumps and fidgets, earning the ire of Sister Margaret who sternly fixes him with a severe glare that promises another night in solitary if he does not behave. At this rate, Alistair is sure he will be assigned to the furthest reaches of Ferelden, perhaps some village in the frozen Kocari Wilds, where he will waste away the days of his life doing absolutely nothing at all, with only chickens to keep him company. It is the one of the worst futures he can imagine. Although he is not too keen on the idea of living in a Circle and overseeing mages day in and day out, at least there would be the chance he might be with Cullen if he is. Village templars aree usually only replaced when they cease being coherent and useful and the lyrium overtakes them._

_“You’re up, Alistair,” another sister beckons to him. “Your opponent is Ser Kalvin.”_

_Alistair blanches. He’s heard of Ser Kalvin, a knight with almost unmatched proficiency with his blade. Yet another bout that would end up with him on his knees. Or perhaps his back. Or perhaps he would piss himself and go stark raving mad and tear off his clothes and run through the fields screaming like an Avaar. The notion makes him smile a little._

_His sword is firm and solid in his hand as he strides out to the field and bows to Ser Kalvin, the weight of his shield comforting. Crossing their swords, they begin. And Alistair quickly realizes the depth of his shortcomings._

_Ser Kalvin darts in and out of his range of vision, striking like the fabled massive cats he’s heard of that roam the high reaches of the Frostbacks. His blade is a blur, forcing Alistair to retreat, his own blade and shield barely able to block the torrent of attacks that rain upon him. Still, at every blow he receives, Alistair grits his teeth and bears down. Every time he is knocked to the ground, he springs back onto his feet. And on it goes. Fighting is the only thing in his life that he has complete control over, so he will be damned if he yields before he is drained of everything he has to give and forced into defeat._

_As it turns out, the end comes rather quickly for him as a particularly intricate routine leaves him blindsided and Alistair receives a shield to his temple. Dizzy and disoriented, he is seconds too slow to parry the next thrust, and he feels the cold edge of a blade against his neck._

_“Yield,” he sighs good-naturedly. He is not too upset; it is still the longest round he has fought yet, and the most skilled opponent who has bested him._

_Ser Kalvin chuckles and claps him on the shoulder with a grin, and both turn to where the Grand Cleric sits upon her high dais and bow. The tourney is over. And all too soon, reality will come for Alistair._

_The rest of the evening is a pleasant departure from the monotony of their normal life, with an elegant feast featuring dishes that are far more expansive than the usual potatoes and lamb and peas they normally receive. Cullen gives him a shy smile as he slides his plate next to Alistair’s on the long table where all the other recruits eat, gathering together to gossip like old maids instead of the stoic templars they are being groomed to be while the Grey Warden and other ranking clergy sit at the other end of the hall._

_“How do you feel?”_

_“A bit sore,” Alistair shrugs. “My vision was a bit fuzzy there for awhile, but it's normal now. I saw your match against Ser Matthias earlier. You held you own really well.”_

_“Not nearly as well as you,” Cullen nudges his shoulder._

_“I still lost.”_

_“Yes,” a new voice booms from behind them, “But winning isn’t always everything.” Both boys jump in their seat and spin around, trying their best to not gape up at the man. “Hello, Alistair. I’m Duncan, but I suppose you know that.”_

_“Y-Yes, ser,” Alistair manages to stammer. Were you even suppose to call Grey Warden ser? Your Wardenness?_

_“I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time. Just to talk.”_

_“Of course,” the lad nods. Glancing back at Cullen, he is encouraged by the tiny nod and smile he receives, and trots off obediently after the older man. Left at the table, Cullen frowns, and finishes his food._

_He ends up wrapping Alistair’s forgotten meal in a cloth, for he knows that his love will be cranky and get into more mischief tomorrow if he goes to bed hungry. Tying the ends securely, he tries to steal as quietly as possible back to the barracks without any of the Sisters noticing his illicit package. A scuffle down a hallway distracts him, and he sees a group of his brothers gathering outside the head Sister’s door._

_“Cullen, come quick! I think Alistair is in trouble.”_

_Heart dropping into his stomach, Cullen hurries to join them and presses his ear against the solid wood panel, straining to catch any hint of the argument within._

_“-absolutely not allow it!”_

_“Grand Cleric, I-”_

_“He is to be a templar! A troublesome one at that, but no matter. I will not have the secrets of this noble Order bandied about in an organization full of criminals!”_

_“The Wardens are hardly a criminal organization, Your Holiness.”_

_“Then you dispute the fact that there are thieves and murderers amongst your ranks?”_

_“I- That is-”_

_“The answer is no, Grey Warden.”_

_“You are aware we hold the Rite of Conscription?”_

_“You would not dare-”_

_“If you do not permit me take the boy, I would and I shall.”_

_“I will not allow-”_

_“Grand Cleric. I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription as granted to me by the combined authority of the kingdoms of Thedas. Alistair, you are now one of us. Go get your things. I doubt Her Holiness will permit either of us to stay the night.”_

_The gaggle of recruits that have gathered suddenly throw themselves out of the way as the door is flung open with such force, they wonder how the hinges manage to hold._

_“What are you lot doing out here,” the Grand Cleric screeches at them. Red face and nearly apoplectic with rage, she orders them back to their rooms._

_Cullen barely hears the excited chattering of the others, nor does he fear the normal terror at the sight of the Grand Cleric’s anger. All he understands is that Alistair is leaving to be a Grey Warden. There was to be no more chance of a future for them in some Circle Tower. Would he ever even see his love again?_

_Alistair’s face reflects much of the same inner turmoil as he enters the room that he has spent most of the last several years in. Numb and silent, he sinks down onto his cot and stares at the floor._

_Swallowing, Cullen sits beside him. “So. Grey Warden?” Alistair merely nods. “That is… This is good.” Wide, stricken eyes turn toward him, torn with indecision and vacillating between heartache and exuberance. “I mean, you never wanted to be a templar. And you’ve always loved the stories about the Wardens and griffons.”_

_“There aren’t anymore griffons,” he whispers._

_“Maybe you’ll find a lost clutch,” Cullen attempts a smile, just for him. Only for him._

_“I can’t say I’m displeased with the idea. I mean. A Grey Warden. Me.” A tiny huff that sounds almost like a laugh leaves his mouth. “But this means…”_

_“I know,” Cullen takes his hands and presses it to his lips. For once, he doesn’t care that others are watching. It doesn’t matter anymore. The threat of being separated is fully realized now, and so, seizing his courage, Cullen pulls Alistair toward him and kisses him._

_Deep, full of longing, unspoken passion, and the desire of more that will never be, they both find themselves choking back pain, the heartache a solid lump in each of their throats._

_“You’ll be happier like this,” Cullen whispers. Leaning his forehead against the other, fingers laced together, he smiles truly now. “And that means I’ll be happy.”_

_“Cullen, I-“_

_“Aren’t you done packing yet, boy?” Brother Marcus stomps into the room, a dark glower firmly entrenched upon his brow. “Her Holiness wants you and that Warden,” he spits the word with such venom, “Gone as soon as possible.”_

_Releasing his hand, Cullen nods at Alistair and takes a step back, bending one knee to surreptitiously tuck the bundle of food into his rucksack._

_It takes only a few minutes more for Alistair to stuff the rest of his meager belongings into the worn leather satchel, and then he is done. Suddenly, his life has changed in the span of an hour and he doesn’t quite understand why. Why him? Why would the Grey Warden anger the Grand Cleric so, just to take him? He is nothing. Nothing, except to Cullen._

_The brother snarls at Alistair again. Heaving the bag over his shoulder, the boy takes a step and grabs Cullen’s hand just before he is bodily hauled out of the room._

_I love you, he mouths._

_It is all Cullen can do to simply nod in return._

_And then, he is gone._

_***_

It was fairly easy to ignore Cullen once she returned from Denerim. Between endless war meetings, reports, and the actual march and assault on Adamant, Senaide has barely any time to even sleep, let alone for small talk, personal or otherwise. But finally, blissfully, the army returned to Skyhold and she was given a full week to herself to do almost absolutely nothing, except for a few, small luncheons with a few visiting dignitaries that Josephine apologetically scheduled. 

Up in her room, Senaide shedded her armor and made a mental note to put it away properly later. There were much more important things to do. Such as soak for the rest of her life in the steaming bath that as waiting on her as soon as she entered. 

A low groan escaped her as she sunk beneath the herb laced water. There had only been time for quick moments when she awoke to wipe off the worst of the grime and dirt since she had left Griffon Wing Keep the day after Adamant, until it had accumulated and she could feel her hair and skin crinkling with caked dust with every move and she felt like she would never fully be clean again. If there was a heaven, she was sure this was it. Silence, clean water, and heat. 

Cullen, for his part, had been most relieved when she returned to Skyhold and reaffirmed what she had already written; Alistair and his crown were both secure, and the threat had been neutralized. Now that she knew, she could see the emotions shift in his eyes when the king was spoken of. He would never love her, and neither would Alistair. And she cared about both men far more than was proper, or healthy, considering the fact that she was Cullen's superior and that she had only known Alistair for the span of a week. It would be best to forget about both. 

To that end, she had endeavored to only call Cullen by his title, and refused to even linger on his face anymore than was necessary. His eyes were far too tempting, and his lips… It did not bear to dwell on. 

There were much more important things to worry about anyways, besides her love life or the lack thereof. Reports of red lyrium in the Dales in a region called the Emprise du Lion filtered in, along with other rifts and associated demons that were terrorizing little hamlets scattered across the Deauvin Flats just west of the former. And above all, judgement loomed. 

It was the part of being Inquisitor she despised the most. How could she, a woman not even of Thedas, sentence others for their crimes? How was she fit to alter another person’s life in such a manner, choosing between life or death? Never mind that she did that very thing every time she took to the battlefields, but passing judgement on a defenseless prisoner who was dragged before her in irons? It had never sat well with and probably never would. And now, Livius Erimond, the man responsible for sending so many Grey Wardens to their doom, sat waiting her word. She knew what his sentence should be, had to be. Death. 

She wanted to throw up. 

Instead, she got out of her tub and dried off and pulled on a fresh pair of leggings and a loose blouse, the leather and silk soft against her desert-worn skin. Pulling her hair into a loose braid, Senaide slipped down into the main hall and out of a side door, inhaling a deep breath of air laden with fragrant blossoms. The gardens were always her favorite place in Skyhold, with the bright riot of colors and scents that filled this place. One finger traced the edge of an ivory crystal grace petal as she took a seat on a low stone bench. 

“Inquisitor.” 

_Oh bloody hell, it’s Cullen_. “Commander,” she responded coolly. 

Shifting in his seat, Cullen’s gaze flickered from her to the table in front of him. “I, er, was waiting on Dorian, but it appears he’s found something better to do. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a game, would you? I understand if you’d prefer not to,” he added hurriedly. He must have seen the indecision in her face. 

_Say no say no say no-_ “Of course.” The wrought iron of chair was cool beneath her legs as she slid in to it, one elbow resting on the table surface. Trying her best to only concentrate on the carved marble pieces in front of her, Senaide picked up a rook in one hand and idly rolled it around in her fingers. 

“I was curious,” Cullen began after a few minutes. “Have I done something to offend?” 

“What?” Jerking her head up, she frowned over at him. “No. Why do you ask?” 

“It’s just… You seem… Distant?” He glanced up from the board, the tips of his ears beginning to flush a faint pink. “I was wondering if it was something I said, or did.” 

Her mouth pulled back in a slight grimace as she realized that, of course, he thought her distance was his own fault. “No, it had nothing to do with you, I…” She set down a rook. “I’ve had a lot on my mind, that’s all.” 

Nodding sagely, he moved one of his own pieces and pocketed another of her pawns. “The Fade?” 

Senaide grasped onto that excuse like a life raft in a raging sea, for it was true that it would be years before she forgot walking through the actual Fade and that terrifying Nightmare demon. And Stroud, and her choice to let him die. “Yes. It’s just… A lot.” 

“I can only imagine,” he murmured. “If you need someone to talk to, I, that is-” The blush traveled further up his neck and crept into his cheeks. “I’m sure you have people to talk to. But if you need another ear to listen, I am always here. Senaide.” 

_And he has to go and say my fucking name like that._ Reverent, like a prayer. Somehow, she found the strength to stay upright in her chair and not swoon at his feet. “I just might take you up on that, Commander. Check.” 

Leaning forward in his chair, Cullen furrowed his brow as he studied the remaining pieces and she could swear that she could almost see the gears turning in his head. His face lit up in a triumphant, utterly smug, grin. “Ah. Checkmate.” 

“What?” Senaide scowled down at the traitorous pieces. “Ugh. Your game, Commander.” 

“There you both are!” 

Turning towards the voice, Senaide smiled while Cullen eyed the newcomer warily. “Whenever Varric looks that happy, I worry,” he muttered at her enquiring gaze. “He’s up to something.” 

“You wound me, Curly,” Varric put his hand over his chest, feigning a stagger to their table. “I’m just organizing a little game tonight. Wicked Grace, in the tavern. To unwind and celebrate after all that shit we just went through. Just us and your closest friends, Storm. Well, except Nightingale, Madame de Fer, and Chuckles. They’re all too busy. But hey, I got Ruffles to come.” 

“Does Josephine know you call her that?” Cullen asked. 

“Yep. So what about it, Curly? You in?” 

He heaved a deep sigh and leaned back sideways in his chair, one arm casually draped across the back. Senaide bit her lip at the sight. “I suppose if I said no, you’d just pester me until I gave in, wouldn’t you?” 

“Nah,” Varric paused. “I’d just set Sera on you.” 

“ _Maker_. Anything but that. I’ll be there, dwarf.” 

“Storm?” 

Senaide nodded. “Anything for my favorite resident author.” 

“Are you sure about this?” Cullen asked once Varric left them, elated with his victory at having convinced them both. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” 

_***_

“What’s the worst that could happen,” Cullen muttered to himself in a slight falsetto as he stood in a bush just under the ramparts. Naked. And still slightly drunk. 

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, obviously. But the Iron Bull had pulled out some of that Void-taken Qunari liquor, and Senaide had taken a sip and then offered it to him with watering eyes, and so entranced was he by the sight of her eyes and the way the torchlight made them almost glow, that he took the cup and downed an entire shot without realizing what it was until it was too late. And _then_ a few more drinks later, he had somehow convinced himself that he could beat Josephine. The Antivan ambassador who was known for her deadly wit and sharp mind. Maker’s breath, but he was a fool. And now here he was, in nothing except what the Maker had given him, and Senaide of all people had witnessed his shame. If a rift were to open up right now in Skyhold, he was sure he’d willingly jump into it. 

“Cullen? Are you there?” 

Maker’s breath, now he was praying for that damned rift. Squeezing his eyes shut, he counted his heartbeats until he was sure Senaide had passed him by. And opened them, only to find her an armslength away, smiling ever so wickedly at him, and… holding his clothes? 

“I thought you’d might like these for the walk back to your room,” she held out the bundle. “Your armor is still back in the tavern. It was a bit much for me to carry all of it, so I just grabbed the essentials.” 

Still avoiding her gaze, Cullen gratefully took the clothes and ducked back down into the bush to pull them on. Breeches, tunic, socks- _did the Inquisitor really carry around my dirty socks?_ \- and boots. He didn’t dare take a normal breath until he was decent. “Thank you,” he stepped out of the shrubbery. “I didn’t really intend for that to happen.” 

Her giggle took him by surprise. Not because he thought she was teasing or mocking him, but because she suddenly looked so happy and free. “I didn’t really think running naked into the night was ever on your list, Cullen,” she laughed. 

There, there was his name on her lips and suddenly he wanted more than just words to grace that bit of skin. He took a step towards her, and instead of blushing or turning to run, she just smiled warmly up at him. 

“Senaide,” his voice rumbled in his chest. One calloused finger reached up to trail down the velvety softness of her skin, and he felt like purring at the sight of her emerald eyes widening with a hitched intake of breath. “I want…” 

“Cullen.” Swallowing, her slender fingers closed around his wrists. “We can’t.” 

He frowned. Maker, why had he drank so much? He usually refrained from partaking anything more than a single glass for this very reason; his head felt as if it were stuffed with sheep’s wool and unspun cotton. “Why not?” 

“You-” Releasing his wrist, she wrapped her arms around herself and glanced off to the side. “I know you’re in love with Alistair. And he with you.” 

“You… How?” Had he told her? Had Alistair? Maker, did everyone know? Was their great secret not a secret after all? 

“I figured it out,” she replied quietly. “The way you react to his name, the way he reacted to yours. That little smile he had when he spoke of you. As lovely as being just a physical distraction for you would be, I wouldn’t be content with just that. I would want more, more than it is my right to ask for.” 

This was all too confusing, and he was far too tipsy to be having this conversation. “If you are certain,” he said haltingly. What was she saying, anyways? That she was more than just attracted to his looks, like all the other dalliances had been? Oh sweet Andraste- did she care for him? 

And why did that notion fill him with such joy? 

Tilting her head back to him, Senaide smiled, a sad, heavy thing. “Good night, Commander,” was all she said. 

His back sagged against the stone wall behind him as he watched her disappear back into the keep. “Good night,” he whispered. 

__What just happened?_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy look a nice long chapter! Yay!
> 
> Smut may or may not be incoming next chapter. *coughs*


	8. To Feel the Void

_To everyone’s shock, Alistair takes charge the moment the heavy doors are pulled shut and lock behind them. He is impatient and unusually violent as he barrels down demon after demon, barely checking to see if the creature is truly deceased, a stark departure from his normal meticulous, placid behavior. Behind him, an elf with twin daggers, a red-haired archer, and an older woman dressed in typical Circle robes watch in awe as he cuts down three shades without even breaking his stride._

_“Alistair, slow down,” the elf calls, wincing as she picks her way over the ichor splattered across the ground. “We need to check and clear every room.”_

_Alistair barely hears her, too intent upon turning over every body clad in heavy plate armor he can find, searching for something, no, someone. The normally garrulous man has been rendered silent, the easy smile gone for now and replaced with a countenance that could have been chiseled from the same stone that lined the walls._

_The elf has never before seen carnage of this level, and she is certain that none of the others have either, judging by the way they all pale every time they round a corner and see the fresh entrails that line the halls. Yet, they must keep pressing on, driven by a greater need; they must find the First Enchanter, and beseech him for aid against the Blight. If he lives. If not…_

_More demons scream their rage as they meet their end, with the last being frozen solid with the wave of the mage's hand and shattered with a well aimed shield to the head. Pausing only to wipe a bit of ichor from the skin close to his eyes, Alistair shoves open yet another door. But this time, instead of cursing under his breath, he gasps and rushes forward._

_Metal scrapes against stone as he falls to his knees and skids to a halt in front of a glowing pillar of light. Running his hand overs the barrier, Alistair bangs his fists against the column, scrabbling to find some sort of weakness. For inside the light, rests a man. Bloodied. Beaten. Broken. “Cullen,” he whispers. Turning around, he looks to the older mage with them and begs, “Wynne, can’t you do anything?”_

_“I cannot,” she responds with great sadness. “I fear Ser Cullen will only be released if we-”_

_From within the cage, Cullen starts and realizes he is no longer alone. “Begone,” he hisses, eyes bloodshot and drawn. “This will not work on me. I know your tricks, demon. You will not use his face against me!” His head is cradled between his hands and he rocks to and fro in place. Alistair can feel his heart breaking into icy fragments at the sight._

_“Cullen,” his voice breaks. “It’s me. I’m really here. It’s Alistair.”_

_“No no no, he can’t be, he’s safe with the Wardens. No! They said all the Wardens died at Ostagar!” Staring up, tears trail down a cheek long since stained. “He’s dead. Gone, and I- I will follow him soon.”_

_Kneeling beside the barrier, Wynne speaks low and soft, “Help is on the way, Ser Cullen.”_

_“Enough visions! If anything in you is human, I beg of you, kill me now and end this game! You broke the others, but I will stay strong!” Withdrawing back into himself, the templar hunches down low, the faint sound of the Chant of Light barely audible. A few moments pass, and he glances up and blinks. “That’s always worked before. You are real, then? A-Alistair? Is that truly you?”_

_“It is.” Alistair rests one hand against the light, and gives his love a trembling smile as Cullen does the same. “We’re going to get you out of there, I swear it.”_

_“You must kill everyone in there,” Cullen suddenly urges, his visage turning cold and harsh. Taken aback, Alistair drops his hands. Not even a year has passed since they parted; could his love have changed so much since then?_

_“What did they do to you?”_

_“They deserve to die,” he insists. “All of them, Uldred most of all. I… I am the only one left. Irving and the others went into the Harrowing Chamber awhile ago, the sounds, oh Maker. You can’t save them, all those blood mages, their wicked fingers snaking into your mind to corrupt it. You have to end it now, before it’s too late. You must kill everyone up there.”_

_Horrified, Alistair stumbles back and swings his gaze to Tabris, who crosses her arms and frowns down at the trapped and trembling man. “We will see, Ser Cullen. I want to see the situation for myself first. Come on, let’s go inside.”_

_With a lingering glance and a fervent vow, Alistair steps into the Harrowing Chamber._

_In the end, the First Enchanter is saved, and the Knight-Commander accepts his word that the ordeal is over. Yet, still Cullen rages._

_Alistair tarries behind the others, asking for only a moment to speak to his soultwin and it is granted to him. Gently cupping a stubbled cheek in one palm, he pulls the other man in for a soft kiss._

_“No,” Cullen gasps, pushing him back. “I- I cannot. Alistair, you don’t understand what they did to me, how they used my memories of you, it’s- I can’t,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I- It’s the mages fault. Maker, you should have killed them all. It will just happen again, if not here, then in another Circle.”_

_Grabbing his shoulders, Alistair gives the templar a little shake. “You wanted to serve and protect, Cullen. Remember that. These mages, they still need you. They’re not all blood mages. Wynne, Irving, Petra, the children- they need you.”_

_“I can’t be anything for them,” comes the miserable reply. “They’ve broken me.”_

_“No. You still look perfect to me.”_

_The mattress creaks beneath them as Cullen shifts his position, and stares out morosely over the dozens of empty bunks that will never see their owners again. Then, “You’re alive. We got word of Ostagar, that all the Wardens-” His breath hitches._

_“They did,” Alistair doesn’t quite meet his eyes now. “Tabris and I were the only survivors.”_

_“How?”_

_“I’m not even sure,” he admits. “I think the Witch of the Wilds saved us. Duncan, he…”_

_“Oh. That’s, um…” Cullen turns slightly, his voice still faraway and detached. “I’m sorry. He seemed like a nice man.”_

_“He was.”_

_“Alistair,” Tabris pokes her head in the doorway, “We’ve got to get back on the road. I’m sorry.”_

_“It’s fine.” Rising to stand, Alistair reaches out to touch Cullen’s shoulder, then snatches the appendage back when he sees the sharp flinch of the other man. The urge to throw himself down upon the floor to sob and scream and rage is strong, but he manages to resist. Perhaps later, when he is alone in his tent, he will allow himself to fall apart. “Can I write to you?”_

_Cullen mutely nods._

_“I’ll, um, do that then. Goodbye, Cullen.”_

_He receives no response. Turning away, Alistair is sure that this is what heartbreak feels like. He wants to stay, more than anything, to be there for his love as he heals, but the world demands more of him._

_And as for him, well. He will never feel whole again. Not until Cullen does._

***

At least this time, Cullen knew why Senaide was avoiding him. 

The morning after his little adventure had brought with it a mind-numbing headache that felt as if a herd of druffalos had stampeded over him and returned for more. Wincing with every blink, it was all he could do to just stand upright as he went through his morning routine, taking what h was sure was forever to shave and smooth back his hair. He had climbed down his ladder, one tentative rung at a time, and made to head out of his office into the brisk morning air to begin drills when a small wicker basket on his desk caught his eye. It was nothing fancy, only a simple potion, a few pieces of plain toast, a mug of clear, cool water, and a note in familiar, slanting handwriting that said ‘for your head’.

Senaide. Smiling to himself, he had quickly downed the potion and taken the rest with him. And when he finally felt like a normal person again, he had tried to find her to thank her, but mysteriously, she had been nowhere to be found. 

It was his own fault, really. He shouldn’t have drank so much; had be been in a normal state of mind, he never would have taken such liberties with her. And now whatever friendship they had possessed, he had ruined.

Although, perhaps it was for the better? After all, the feelings she stirred within were confusing, to say the least. Maker, if only he could see Alistair again. With all the chaos and turbulence that surrounded him, it would be nice to have the only solid and sure thing in his life with him.

The next few weeks passed rather uneventfully. The Inquisitor had taken a small team into Orlais, ravens arriving daily with news of her progress and blood splattered letters that she had unearthed from Samson detailing his armor and the red lyrium mine operations, and Cullen and his men quickly began tracing routes and manifests throughout Thedas in an attempt to track down the man’s base of operations. It would only be a matter of time, and then, Cullen vowed, he would have him and take him down. How a once noble knight of the Order could have fallen so far…

Could it have been him?

 _Don’t be silly_ , Alistair’s voice chided him. _You have more honor in your pinky toe than that man ever had in his entire body. It’s part of your charm, you see._

A creak echoed through his office as he leaned back in his chair, setting down the quill in his hand for just a moment in order to stretch his shoulders and neck. A knocked rapped out sharply against his side door, and Cullen bade the person enter.

“Commander,” a dwarven woman dressed in the armor of Leliana’s scouts saluted smartly. “The Inquisitor has just been spotted at the crest of the valley.”

“Thank you,” he nodded. The alert gave him just enough time to finish studying the last batch of requisitions and make it down into the courtyard right as the gate was rising. Senaide looked… tired. Worn down by her travels, and her companions did not appear to fare much better. Even Solas, normally unflappable in the most trying of situations, looked rough around the edges. “Inquisitor,” Cullen greeted her as she dismounted and passed off the reins of her horse to a waiting stablehand.

“Commander,” she replied with a heavy nod. “I’d like everyone to meet in the war room in… three hours? Is that acceptable?”

It was longer than she typically took before meeting with her advisors, but he could see that she sorely needed the extra time, given the way her shoulders sagged with relief when he voiced his agreement. His men gave him some idea as to why. As they filtered into his office to give him their reports, their words painted a gruesome picture of unspeakable horrors, besides the normal demons that they were accustomed to. Senaide’s letters had spoken a bit about it, how Samson was using people to mine the lyrium from their bodies, but the trauma of actually seeing it was sticking with the soldiers and haunting their every waking moment. How much more so for the Inquisitor, who felt every loss as if she could have prevented it all? As if everything were her own fault?

Only a few lingering rays of sun illuminated the keep by the time Cullen made his way down the stairs and entered the great hall, all of the torches burning brightly within the large chamber, bathing the giant mabari statues that lined the walls in warm, golden light. He smiled at the sight. Josephine and Madame de Fer both had desperately pleaded with the Inquisitor to choose something a bit more aesthetically pleasing to their Orlesian visitors, but Senaide, usually quite amenable to whatever her ambassador chose as far as decor, had put her foot down on this matter.

“They really brighten up the place, don’t you think? Makes it less austere, more like a home than a military fortress.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” the Antivan noble had sighed, and made the arrangements to put the dogs up on display to her eternal despair. Later, Senaide had confided in him that she used to have dogs and they reminded her of them. 

“A little bit of my home here in Thedas,” she had wistfully remarked. It was the only time he had ever heard her speak of her world with such longing, and it made him feel honored that she would choose him to confide in. If only they could reach the point where she would do so again, as just friends.

Swinging the wooden door open, Cullen nodded at Leliana, who already stood at one end of the heavy table, a stack of her notes resting atop the map. A few seconds later, Josephine slipped in followed by the Inquisitor, her still wet hair piled atop her head in a loose bun. 

Senaide answered all of their questions in a worn, ragged voice, her movements not as fluid as they normally were, yet she still rebuffed Josephine’s concern when asked. “I’m fine, Josie. A little shocked maybe at everything we saw, but…” She sighed. “I’ll be fine. What’s next on the agenda?”

“King Alistair has written to us for aid, considering how you assisted him so well before,” Josephine began, and Senaide, to her credit, didn’t even glance at Cullen to see his reaction to his lover’s name. “He wishes to facilitate peace talks between Ferelden and Orlais, and hopes we will, erm, ‘make these talks happen’, as he so aptly writes.”

Snorting, Senaide glanced up from the table and put down the marker she had been fiddling with. One of his markers, Cullen noticed. “I don’t see a reason why not. Can we?”

“They will need to meet on neutral territory,” Josephine mused. “On the border? Jader, perhaps?”

“Jader is still in Orlais,” Senaide pointed out. “What about here? We’re as neutral as they’re going to get without going to the Free Marches or something. We have the capabilities to host both rulers, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Cullen blurted out, perhaps a touch too quickly. He just barely caught the faint twitch of lips on both Leliana’s and Senaide’s lips. “That is to say, security won’t be an issue.”

“That’s settled then,” Senaide nodded. “They’ll both come here and stay for- how long do peace talks take, anyways?”

“If we are lucky, a week at most,” Leliana answered. “If not… months. But I doubt it would take that long. Both countries are eager for peace after everything that’s happened.”

“Send the invitations then.”

Grabbing his papers up, Cullen rushed out the door to catch up with Senaide as she walked back through the halls. “Inquisitor,” he called. Her pace slowed as she turned around, waiting patiently for him to catch up. “I just wanted to… thank you.”

“For what, Commander?”

His smile was wry, more of a smirk than anything. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain it to you, Senaide.”

Grinning fit to split her cheeks, she laughed for the first time in weeks, clear green eyes sparkling with impish delight. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, ser. But you’re welcome. And let me know as soon as you’ve found Samson’s base? It’ll be at the top of my priority list.”

“I would like to accompany you, when you go. I feel… some great responsibility to this matter, and I would like the opportunity to see it through,” he stood a little straighter under her scrutiny, her eyes searching his face, and he knew she was determining the state of his health and withdrawals. Maker, if she said no-

“Of course, Cullen. It’s not your fault though,” she rested one hand just above his bracer, her fingers squeezing his forearm. “It never was.”

“It’s not yours either.”

Dropping her hand, Senaide’s smile faded into exhaustion. 

“Tell that to the people that die waiting on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAVE A SAD DEPRESSING CHAPTER I'M SORRY AHHHHH


	9. To Have and to Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Tags updated, rating changed. Enjoy!

_Cullen fidgets as he enters the Viscount’s Keep, trailing behind his Knight-Commander. His duties since arriving in Kirkwall have been relentless, but it is to his preference, and he throws himself into his work with a fervor that earned him the title of Knight-Captain scant months after he joins the templars here in the Gallows. But today, today is different. After the normal guard rotations and drills, Cullen leaves the island, having put in for a night of leave for the first time in years._

_Alistair is coming. Alistair Theirin, now King of Ferelden. Maker’s breath, he can scarcely believe it. He knows his love well, or he did, and the position of king along with all the scheming and intrigue that came along with it was the last thing Alistair would have ever wanted. Yet, there he was, standing tall and proud in this little inn and so much healthier than the last time Cullen had seen him._

_Many letters Alistair has written him over the last few years, but Cullen rarely responds to a single one. He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. The shame of how he acted and drew away from Alistair’s embrace the last time they spoke still haunts him, and he can’t help but wonder if the king has found another to give his affections to. The legends say that soultwinned mates can never love another, but what if they were wrong?_

_Alistair openly grins as Cullen steps inside the room, the latter running his hand nervously through thick blonde curls. Ushering him in, the door closes behind them and locks._

_“Hello,” Cullen says. Has he ever been this uncertain around Alistair before?_

_“Hi,” Alistair half smiles in return. “I, um. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me,’ he says after a minute of awkward posturing. “I mean, I know you’re here, and that you got my letter, but the answer was rather… brief. You never really wrote back to any of my other letters, either.”_

_“I… wanted to. I want to,” Cullen mutters. “I just- After the way I treated you back in the tower, I wasn’t sure if you were just…”_

_“Just what, Cullen? Being kind? Writing you because I had nothing better to do?” Alistair snorts and moves closer to him. “You know better than that.”_

_Amber eyes dart up from the floor to glance at him. “You… still love me then?”_

_“Cullen.” Closing the rest of the distance, Alistair grabs him by shoulders and draws him in for a deep, lingering kiss. Every pent-up emotion, all the fear and insecurities and distance they had suffered pouring out in each caress of his lips and grip of his fingers. Cullen melts into the embrace, and holds him closer. “I will always love you,” he breathlessly whispers between gasps of air. “Forever and always. There will be only you, until the day I die. Even if we weren’t marked, I would still love you.”_

_A shy smile crosses Cullen’s lips, the sort he used to give back when they were templars and such affections were forbidden. But now, it is just the two of them. Alone. In a room. With a bed. The realization hits them both at the same time._

_“I, um-”_

_Running one finger along the hem of Alistair’s neckline, Cullen interrupts, “You’ve gotten a tan. You’re darker than before.”_

_“So I have,” Alistair agrees, then pauses to waggle his eyebrows in a manner that makes Cullen laugh, his heart light and free after so long. “Would you like to see how far down it goes?”_

_“I…”_

_“You don’t have to,” he quickly adds. “If, you know, you don’t want-”_

_“I want to.”_

_“Oh. Well, then.”_

_With slow, yet shaky movements, Cullen slowly draws his tunic over his head, not daring to even breathe as Alistair does the same. Myriads of new scars litter both of their skins, the last several years having taken a toll of them that reaches into their very souls. How selfish had he been, so wrapped up in his own troubles, that he has neglected to ensure his love was hale and hearty? Alistair has been off, running around Ferelden to save all of Thedas, and succeeding, while Cullen has been hiding underneath his pile of duties._

_“Hey,” Alistair notices the shadow that crosses Cullen’s face. “None of that, now. You’re here, and so am I, and that is all that matters right now.”_

_“How are you even here,” Cullen mumbles. “I would have thought the king would travel with an entourage, and_ Maker’s breath _, Alistair. You’re the bloody king.”_

_“I snuck out,” he shrugs._

_Some things never change. Thus encouraged by this small reminder that this man here was still his Alistair, still the same boy he had fallen in love with, Cullen laughs and tugs his love closer, eager to feel skin against skin._

_“Oh, before we, um, you know,” Alistair blushes. “I have something for you.” He scurries over to his pack in the corner, and pulls out two small items that clink together. “I had them made for us. Do you like them?”_

_Taking one of the plain metal bands, Cullen holds it up to the light. It is nothing fancy, plain unadorned silverite, but something on the inside catches his eye. “The fire at the heart of my world," he reads. "Are we bastardizing the Chant now?”_

_Shoving his chest back, Alistair climbs onto the mattress next to him. “It’s supposed to be romantic,” he mumbles. “You’re supposed to swoon. Or something, I dunno.”_

_Cullen chuckles and slides the ring on his finger. “I love it. It’s perfect, Alistair.”_

_“You do?” He perks up._

_“I do. I love you.”_

_“And I love you,” Alistair giggles and practically vibrates with happiness. “Um. You should know.” He eyes the bed warily. “I’ve never done anything like this before. With anyone.”_

_“What? Given anyone a ring?”_

_“No,” he groans. “You know.”_

_A mischievous smile tugs at Cullen’s lips. “I’m afraid I don’t.”_

_“Yes, you do, I can see it on your face, you horrible person,” Alistair pouts._

_“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”_

_“...Caboodling.”_

_“Caboodling?” Cullen raises one eyebrow. “Alistair, you’re 24 years old and a king.”_

_“I know,” he whines. “Ugh! Fine! Sex. I’ve never had sex. There, are you happy?”_

_“Mm,” humming contentedly, Cullen pulls Alistair in for a sweet, gentle kiss. “You know I haven’t either.”_

_“You haven’t?”_

_“Did you really think I’d want to, with anyone else besides you,” he gently chides._

_“Well, you haven’t written to me in ages,” Alistair replies with a slight acerbic undertone. “I wasn’t sure.”_

_“I know,” Cullen sighs, and pulls away a bit. “I promise I’ll do better.”_

_“You know, if you did, you know, want to caboodle with others,” Cullen snorts at his liege’s word choice yet again, and Alistair pointedly ignores him, “I wouldn’t mind.” A frown is all he gets for a response. “It would just be a physical thing, right? I mean, I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to sneak away like this, and I-” He tenderly cups Cullen’s cheek in one calloused palm. “I just want you to be happy.”_

_“And I, you. I’ll think about it,” Cullen nods. “But I’d much rather think about you right now.”_

_“Well, I should certainly hope so, I mean, I did sneak away from my kingdom and cross that blasted sea and- mmph!”_

_Cullen smiles against Alistair’s lips as he leans in to shut him up, twisting them both until they fall down upon the mattress in a tangle of giggles and awkward limbs._

_“I love you.”_

_***_

The entire processions halted in its steps as they rounded the last bend, murmurs rolling through the ranks at the sight that greeted them. A valley surrounded by the familiar jagged, snowcapped peaks of the Frostbacks that gleamed gold in the setting sun lay at the end of the trail, a valley that was filled entirely with tiny twinkling lights that blinked into existence as new torches were lit alongside a raging river that snaked its way down one side. There had to be hundreds, no, thousands camped down there alone. And on the lip of a crest, towering above the encampment, a castle stood. Not just any old castle either, it was an ancient fortress remade to serve the purpose of the Inquisition, entirely defensible, with only a single bridge to access it. 

It was, in a word, magnificent. 

Horseshoes clopped with ringing steps across the arched stone bridge that led to the main gate of Skyhold. It was even more impressive up close and Alistair blew out a low whistle. How such a large keep had been hidden from the rest of Thedas for so long was beyond his knowledge, but here it was, and here he was. 

From the looks of it, all of Skyhold had turned out for his arrival, and soldiers and nobles alike lined the walls, standing shoulder to shoulder in a display that he had never before seen. Humans, dwarves, and elves gathered together, all wildly cheering as he passed into the courtyard, with even a few Qunari dotting the crowd. And at the top of the staircase that led into what he assumed was the main hall, Inquisitor Ariss waited. And next to her, Cullen. 

Resisting the urge to fling himself off his horse and throw himself into his lover’s arms, Alistair instead dismounted in the yard and swept the Inquisitor a low bow as she approached him and his retinue with even, measured steps. Maker, she was even more lovely than he remembered, with her ebony tresses caught up in a fashionable updo, her skin veritably glowing against the dark amethyst of her silk blouse, no hint of animosity in her smile that might have stemmed from their last parting. And Cullen- Cullen completely took his breath away. 

The man still looked like he could use at least three days of nonstop sleep, but the haggard look that had always hung around him since Kinloch was gone. Sunken cheeks had filled in with a decent layer of fat, golden hair was neatly trimmed, all traces of stubble had been carefully shorn off and his eyes, oh his eyes. That sweet, bright radiance beckoned him like a siren of legend. 

“Well met, Your Majesty,” the Inquisitor offered him a proper half bow, the greeting of equals, coached by her ambassador, no doubt. For while some maps would declare Skyhold to be part of Ferelden, no one had claimed this keep in centuries, leaving this land a nonentity. She was, in essence, master of her little kingdom and he was just a visitor. Not that he cared much. Maker knew he had enough land under his purview anyways. “How did your journey fare?” 

“Quite well, Inquisitor. We thank you for your offer of hospitality in these troubling times.” The formality rolled off his tongue after so many years of practice, and Alistair straightened a bit under Cullen’s proud gaze. 

“It is our honor and privilege, Your Majesty. I understand that you may be tired, you and your men, so I would offer you a chance to rest and refresh before the evening meal. Commander,” she waved forth the man with a hint of an impish gleam in her eye, a feature she shared with none other than the Sister Nightingale who stood just a few paces behind her. And then, Alistair realized that the Inquisitor _knew_. He felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “Commander, would you be so kind as to escort his Majesty to his chambers? I’m sure he would be most interested in hearing about the security accommodations that have been set in place for the duration of his stay. We have taken every precaution to arrange for your safety and comfort, Your Majesty, both you and the Empress.” 

Cullen, to his credit, did not react with fumbling or awkwardness. Bending at the hip, he cooly bowed to the king and the Inquisitor. “It would be my pleasure. Your Majesty, Lieutenant Bryant will take your men to their quarters. If you would follow me?” 

Shooting the Inquisitor a half glare that was met with only a tiny smirk, Alistair trailed behind Cullen, relishing in the opportunity to watch the Commander’s hips as they flexed with each step, hypnotized by the way the leather shifted over the rippling muscles as they moved through the great hall and ascended the staircase and- 

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying, have you?” 

Alistair started, and glanced around. They were alone now, just the two of them, in an empty hall. Where had everyone else gone? “I, ah… I was preoccupied,” he admitted. 

Chuckling to himself, Cullen pushed open a door that was a bit more ornate than the rest open into an airy room with a fabulous view of the mountains beyond. “You are impossible, do you know that?” 

The door had barely clicked shut before Alistair lunged for Cullen and laughing, tackled him to the plush bed just behind them, their armor clanging against each other in a cacophony of noise. “It’s why you love me,” he grinned. 

“One of the reasons,” Cullen agreed. “Let me up and get out of this armor.” 

“And then we can caboodle?” Alistair grinned as he reached for his buckles, lifting his breastplate over his head. 

Eyeing him as he worked on his own clasps, Cullen raised one eyebrow. “I had rather hoped that we could do a bit more than just… caboodle.” 

Alistair shimmied out of the rest of his clothes in record time, leaving the pieces scattered haphazardly across the floor and impatiently tugged at the remnants of Cullen’s clothes until they both stood naked in the room. Wrapping his arms around Cullen’s chest, Alistair pulled the man back to bed and down into the sheets, sighing happily as their lips met in a frenzy of nips and tongue and teeth. 

“I missed you,” he managed to mutter, groaning as Cullen’s hands trailed down his chest to grab at the edge of his hip, his exposed length twitching at the proximity. 

Dragging his teeth down the side of Alistair’s neck, Cullen raked the nails of his other hand over his nipples, smiling against his collarbone as the king gasped and arched underneath his touch. “And I you.” Slowly, inch by inch, he slid down the length of his lover’s still toned body, tasting as much of the soft, warm skin as he could until he settled between Alistair’s legs. 

“Cullen,” the king whined. 

“Hush,” Cullen breathed over the sensitive skin of his cock, watching hungrily as it bobbed in place. A single drop of precum glistened at the tip, waiting, begging to be tasted. “You know, the Inquisitor told me to take good care of you. And I am anything but disobedient.” 

Sheets clenched between his fists as Alistair groaned, bucking underneath the searing feel of Cullen’s mouth closing around him. Forcing his eyes to stay open, he watched, mesmerized by the way his tongue swirled expertly around his head, dipping down to massage the length of his shaft, one finger delicately trailing over the seam of his balls, down, down- 

“Cullen,” he moaned.”Maker, _fuck_ , that- I don’t think this is what she had in mind when she told you that.” 

“Mmm,” Cullen hummed around him. “I think this is exactly what she had in mind actually. You should have seen how much she and Leliana were giggling when she informed me of my duties earlier today. But is this what you really want to be talking about right now?” 

“No,” shaking his head vehemently, Alistair stared wide-eyed as Cullen reached across him towards the little table beside the bed and pulled out a small vial of oil. “Prepared, I see.” 

“Always.” A small whimper escaped Alistair as he felt slippery fingers slide just behind his balls, gently circling the puckered hole with teasing caresses. Cullen’s head rose to meet his eyes, and Alistair nodded. 

And almost screamed as Cullen’s mouth slammed down the length of his cock, the tip jamming into the back of his throat while one finger breached him, twisting and turning and stretching and- 

A heavy arm draped over his abdomen, pinning him in place, Cullen’s pace relentless as he demanded more from his lover, sliding another finger deep inside of him, sucking until Alistair swore he was seeing stars explode across his vision. 

“I need,” he gasped as he felt a third finger enter him. “I need, _Cullen_ , please.” 

“Since you asked so nicely.” Pulling back, Cullen grinned down lazily, smirking at the sight of Alistair’s flushed skin and trembling limbs. He scooted a bit closer and dribbled a bit more oil over his own cock, the head purple and throbbing with want. “Ready?” 

“Fuck me.” 

Bracing himself on one muscular arm over Alistair’s body, Cullen breached his lover’s body tortuously slow, panting and straining for self control, sweat beading on his forehead until he was blessedly hilted deep inside, pressed as close as they could ever be. Neither of them moved for a moment, lost in the sensation of fullness and tight warmth and the sheer perfection of it all. It was a homecoming, back into the arms of the one they loved, the other half of their souls. Alistair’s hand roamed over every inch of Cullen’s body that he could reach, gradually relaxing as his body accommodated Cullen’s thick girth. 

“Good?” Cullen whispered into his ear. 

“Perfect,” Alistair smiled back. 

One thrust, two, and it was clear that neither of them would last very long, but with this visit, they had days to spend together, and nights that were guaranteed to be only for themselves. They had _time_ , for the first time ever. Alistair’s hand wrapped around his cock, pumping himself in time with Cullen’s thrusts, and they both moaned at the sight. 

“Ali, love, I don’t think-” 

“Come for me,” Alistair begged. Watching Cullen fall apart over him was his favorite thing in the world. The normally stoic man frantic and shuddering, his face tightening with his own pleasure, eyes searching and wondering, dissolving in his hands, and then- 

A cry shattered the stillness of the room. The air, warm and thick, was filled with the heady smell of sex and musk. Twisting his hand over the head of his cock, Alistair followed him with a ragged groan, spilling himself over his stomach and hand. Gasping for air, Cullen collapsed at his side. 

“Maker’s breath,” the Commander murmured, his chest still heaving, “That was…” 

“Lovely,” Alistair drawled with a grin. Turning over onto his side, he propped himself up on one arm and gazed down at his love, examining every inch of him. “You know,” he ran one hand through Cullen’s sparse golden curls upon his chest, “I received your letters, and everyone assured me that you were alive and well. And I saw you standing in front of Skyhold, looking all handsome and imposing and commanderly, but I did not truly believe that you were alright until this moment. Hearing about the Conclave was…” He shuddered at the memory. 

“I know. I felt much the same after hearing about Ostagar, all those years ago,” Cullen nodded, then paused. “So who did you think was writing to you, if you weren’t convinced it was me? Or speaking to you when you arrived?” 

“I dunno,” Alistair lifted one shoulder carelessly. “Maybe a spirit inhabiting a body made of lyrium and crows?” 

Cullen blinked at him. “What? You’re absolutely ridiculous, do you know that?” 

“No, not crows. Mabari? Yes, that’s it. Two mabari. Maybe two and a half. You are rather tall.” 

“You are ridiculous.” 

“You said that already.” 

Snorting, Cullen rolled over to grab a spare shirt and cleaned them both off. “It bears repeating.” 

“You love it. How long do we have ‘til we have to be proper again, anyways?” 

“Senaide said we have to be down in the hall around the sixth evening bell. We’re free until then.” 

“You call her by her name,” Alistair remarked softly. 

Glancing over at him, Cullen stood and crossed the room to pour a glass of water out of a pitcher that had been left for them. “She asked me to.” 

The sheets rustled as Alistair pushed himself up to sit, his back resting against the carved wooden headboard. “Cullen,” he fiddled with the hem of the blanket, “There’s something I need to tell you.” 

“Oh?” 

“The Inquisitor, Senaide, she- When she was in Denerim, I…” 

Cullen froze. “You… slept with her?” 

“I wanted to,” he admitted. “But it never got that far. I kissed her. Or she kissed me. I’m not sure what the distinction is.” 

“Well,” Cullen shifted as he sat back down on the bed and handed Alistair the water. “That’s alright. We’ve both had other dalliances.” 

“Yes.” A long exhale deflated his lungs. Leaning his head back, Alistair swallowed, and sighed. “But this was difference. I- I felt things. Things I should not be able to feel. I don’t understand it.” 

Staring down into his own cup, Cullen did not move, not until Alistair crawled across the mattress and touched him on his shoulder. “What? No, I’m not mad at you, love,” he shook his head at the sorrowful look in Alistair’s eyes. “It’s… I almost kissed her too, one night when I had a bit too much to drink. Not that that was my excuse, it just made it easier for me to act. She stopped me before I could, told me that she figured out that we were in love and that she did not want to come between us. And if we are being honest, I… feel something for her as well. But I’m not sure what it is.” 

Hesitant fingers traced over the imprint of the Sword of Mercy imprinted on Cullen’s stomach, just under his ribs. Alistair bit his lip. “Do you think the brand has something to do with this?” 

Reaching out, Cullen rubbed one thumb over the rose on Alistair’s arm. He could still remember the way it look upon his own skin, all those years ago before he had taken his vows. “I don’t know. No one really talks about soulmarks in the Order. But it doesn’t matter. Alistair,” grasping his hand, he pulled him into his lap, tucking his love’s head against his chest. “I chose this. I chose _you_ , and I will choose you over and over. Soulmark or no, I love you. That isn’t going to change. If you want to pursue something with Senaide, I wouldn’t stop you. You know that,” he smiled softly and pressed his lips to his hair. “You deserve a wife that you could love, and who could love you in return. You do need heirs, Your Majesty.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Alistair muttered into Cullen’s chest. “But you care for her too.” 

“I don’t have to marry,” he reminded him. “You do.” 

“I’ll think about it. But in the meantime,” hands snaked around Cullen’s waist and with a grunt, Alistair flipped them over and sat astride the other man. “We still have several more hours, don’t we, Commander?” 

Cullen grinned. “That we do. Would you like to hear about those security measures now, Your Majesty?”

“To the Void with your security, Cullen.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile since I wrote any smut, and even longer since I wrote m/m smut, soooo hopefully this is decent.


	10. Decisions and Revelations

_Alistair has heard the reports coming out of Kirkwall, and despite his best efforts, he worries._

_Three more years pass, and all he has to show for it are a pile of letters from a certain Knight-Captain and a headache that will never cease. More conflict stirs along Ferelden’s borders, whispers of war, and a chance arises. His advisors recommend that the king seek support from the city-states of the Free Marches, perhaps even Nevarra, or Antiva, but of course, Alistair chooses to go to Kirkwall first. It's closest anyways, with the largest port._

_Stifling the urge to roll his eyes, Alistair listens as the abrasive Knight-Commander of the Gallows scolds him, eerily reminiscent of the Sisters back at the monastery, and he doesn’t understand why Cullen thinks she is so wonderful. He sneaks a glance to the side during her tirade, and his lips curve ever so slightly upward as he catches Cullen’s eye. Those eyes, warm and earthy, fill him with a sense of home, and both of their faces light up. Cullen himself can barely stand still as Meredith argues with the king, while Alistair blatantly fidgets and sighs at the Knight-Commander’s refusal of aid._

_As Meredith turns to storm out of the keep, Alistair calls out to her. “Knight-Commander, I was wondering if you knew who I should ask for a guide to lead me around Kirkwall? Would one of your templars be willing?”_

_“My templars are not errand boys,” she grouses._

_“Ah, of course, my apologies,” Alistair soothes. “I’m sure the city-guard would provide me with a much more capable escort, anyhow.”_

_Blustering, Meredith’s jaw grinds as she tries to figure out how to respond to this slight against her men, when Cullen steps up and calmly says, “Knight-Commander. I don’t mind assisting the king.”_

_“It is beneath you, Knight-Captain,” she frowns._

_“He is a king of Ferelden, and I hail from there,” he reminds her. “It would be my honor.”_

_“If you must,” she dismisses him with a wave, and exits the keep._

_Victorious, Alistair giggles, and the templar shakes his head. Some things never change, yet Cullen is thankful for it._

_There is still more to do, and Alistair speaks to the Champion of Kirkwall, but eventually, they are blessedly alone, and the king dismisses the Arl Teagan that has accompanied him._

_“You shouldn’t antagonize the Knight-Commander, you know.”_

_“Really?” Alistair huffs. “We haven’t seen each other in three years, and instead of saying hello, or I missed you, Alistair, you say, be nicer to the scary templar lady?”_

_“Hello. I missed you, Alistair.”_

_Laughing, Cullen affectionately nudges his shoulder as they stroll through the streets of Hightown. He wants to sweep up the other man into his arms, kiss him senseless, and lose himself in his lover’s embrace, but there are too many eyes out here. And they are too used to keeping their relationship a secret to be more flagrant._

_“You look tired,” Alistair observes, leading them both to the inn where he has reserved a room in a secluded sector of Hightown. The keeper there has been well bribed to maintain his silence._

_“There is a lot going on, and-” He sighs, and reaches one hand back to rub against his neck, pulling at a taut muscles. “Sometimes it feels as if this city is teetering on the edge of a repeat of Kinloch. I don’t know what to do to stem the tide of disaster.”_

_“Meredith could probably ease up. Seems to me like she’s making it worse,” Alistair grumbles._

_“She is not.” Cullen’s voice is unusually sharp, his head swinging around, bearing a severe frown. “She’s the only one who sees what is truly going on, the only thing in this city standing between the citizens and chaos.”_

_“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” One hand, free of its gauntlet, slides against Cullen’s cheek. Warm skin, comforting, tender. “I don’t want to argue. Not with you.”_

_“Nor do I. I’m sorry as well.”_

_“You’re under a lot of stress. We both are, it’s to be expected.” His armor clanks as he sets in on the ground, and dressed only in a thin linen tunic and breeches, Alistair holds his arms out. "Well? Don't I get a hug?"_

_"You'll get much more than that," Cullen smirks, divesting himself of his own armor._

_"Promises, promises."_

***

Senaide sent up a silent prayer to whatever deities were listening that she did not have to attend the bulk of diplomatic talks. Josephine and her assistants handled most of that, discussing with both rulers and their appointed counsel the trade agreements, negotiating borderlines and treaties that would be to the benefit of both nations. There was only one event that she was absolutely required to attend.

A ball.

Nothing fancy, Josephine assured her, although everyone knew that was a lie. The Empress of Orlais herself, as well as the King of Ferelden, would be in attendance, and while it would not be as extravagant as the fete they had attended at the Winter Palace, it would still require all the skill of the Game that she had learned, and every bolt of velvet and silk that the Antivan could get her hands on.

And that was wht the Inquisitor had been kicked out of her own hall, shooed away by the myriads of servants that were bustling about to polish and scrub and drape the walls in elegance and shimmer. It was rare that she had a day to doing nothing at all, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself.

Sera had mysteriously disappeared from Skyhold, sent on an errand elsewhere by one of the advisors, Senaide suspected, so that nothing out of the ordinary would occur while the royals were in residence. Blackwall and the Iron Bull were down in the valley today, working on melee training with some of the advanced recruits. And for the last week, Dorian had secluded himself with Dagna down in the undercroft, running a series of experiments on the red lyrium samples they had retrieved from the Emprise du Lion. 

Not finding herself in the mood for a discussion about the Fade, and most assuredly not in the least bit inclined to hear how ragged and torn her nails were, and would she please stop biting them from the formidable Madame de Fer, Senaide slipped off across the battlements, heading for a secluded spot of the courtyard, far away from beehive of activity.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra glanced up as she heard footsteps approach. The Seeker was sitting propped against a wall, partially hidden by a low shrub.

“Nice hiding spot you’ve got here.” Plopping down next to her, Senaide stretched out and grinned.

“Ah. The ambassador requested I wear a dress to tonight’s festivities. I declined. She did not take it well, and we had… words.” Her brow creased at the memory. “Lady Montilyet can be quite formidable when crossed. I had not realized how much so until this morning.”

“Cass. Are you scared of Josie?”

“Of course not!”

Clamping a hand over her mouth, Senaide giggled. “You are! I would never have guessed that you, of all people, would ever be afraid of anyone. Well, except Varric. He’s due to return from Kirkwall today, you know.”

“I am not afraid of anyone, least of all that meddlesome, selfish dwarf,” Cassandra hissed.

Not long after the Inquisitor and her companions had arrived from Denerim, Varric had requested leave to attend to an urgent matter in Kirkwall, or so he said. Cassandra had taken his speedy departure and avoidance as a refusal, or worse, abhorrence of their soulbond and withdrawn into herself. Senaide was ready to just lock the pair into a broom closet to force them to talk it out.

“You’re not still made at him over the Hawke thing, are you?” Senaide asked.

“I… No,” the Seeker sighed. “I do not know what I am anymore. Emotions are messy things, and I… I am not good at this sort of thing.”

“You should talk it out with him.”

“He left me,” Cassandra grabbed at a tuft of grass with a scowl. “I do not think he wishes to speak about it.”

“But you left him first, at the palace,” Senaide gently reminded her. “So I’d say you’re both even on that account. Just talk to him, Cass. What do you have to lose?”

Picking up a stray leaf by her foot, Cassandra twirled it between her fingers, then groaned and crumpled the foliage and scattered the remnants on the dirt. “I suppose.”

“That’s my grumpy, mature adult friend,” Senaide skittered to the side with a laugh, neatly ducking the the pinecone that the other woman hefted her way. “I’m going to practice a bit on the dummies. Want to join?”

“After I finish this chapter,” she held up the book in her lap, returning to her reading as Senaide jogged to the other end of the wall.

Her knives made for a familiar weight as she buckled the leather holster around her thigh. When she had first arrived on Thedas, Senaide had only known a few hand-to-hand combat self defense tricks, and the basics of archery from a hobby she had picked up as a teenager. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine she would ever use real arrows to kill people with, or that she would do so on purpose. And then, she had woken up in Thedas after an accident, and been thrown into this medieval world, learning to fight for her very survival. Cullen had helped immensely with that. From the first day, he had taken the time to train her, both he and Cassandra, running her ragged around that damn lake in Haven until she was it fit physical shape, and Leliana had made it her personal mission to provide the Herald of Andraste with daggers and suitable instruction, as Senaide lacked the brute muscle strength needed to strike against larger enemies. The result was a Inquisitor who was a decent shot, and mediocre as a rogue, but her basic skills, honed by constant practice, and her companions, kept her alive.

 _Inhale, aim, exhale and release_. The thud of the blade hitting the wooden target was satisfying.

“Not bad. A bit more to the right, and you might give your enemy a papercut, at least.”

Whirling around, Senaide mock glared at the king, who was wearing that smug smirk she found so damn attractive. Butterflies swirled in her stomach, as they had since the moment she had laid eyes on him again, and she viciously stamped them down. “Oh? And you could do better?”

Alistair strolled up to her and took the knife she offered, checked its balance and alignment, curled one arm back, and let it fly. And the smug grin was back.

“Of course!” Throwing her hands up in the air, Senaide narrowed her eyes at the hilt, embedded in the ring right next to the bullseye. “I thought you were a warrior? You know, big sword and shield and all.”

“I am,” he chuckled at her petulance. “I have many talents, actually. I apparently also do a spot on impression of Arl Lendon.”

“I wouldn’t be proud of that one,” Senaide snorted. “Although I’m sure Cullen appreciates your other… talents.” 

Red burned from the tips of his ears and down his neck, one hand rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that she found very familiar. “I… wanted to apologize. I meant to earlier, but this is really the first time we’ve had the chance to talk without everyone and their mother listening in on us. Back in Denerim, when I…”

“You really don’t have to apologize for anything,” she cut in. “I’m not upset, or hurt, or whatever emotion you think I might be feeling. You love Cullen, and that love is a rare thing I think, even in a place where things like soulmarks exist.”

“I’m sorry I cannot offer you more.” His eyes threatened to swallow her whole with their tender warmth, and Senaide found that she could not meet his gaze directly. Smiling a bit, she took out another knife and bounced it in her palm.

“Don’t be.”

His plain tunic, rather inconspicuous for his status, scratched against the wall as he leaned against it, watching her as she practiced. “Do you miss your world?” The question came out of nowhere. “Cullen said you weren’t from Thedas.”

“I’m not. And… it doesn’t matter.” She frowned down at the dirt and kicked over a rock. “I’m here now, and I can’t go back. For better or worse, this is my home now.” A hand flew up to grasp her chest as warmth and and an odd tingling gripped her heart, sending little flares of what felt like static electricity ripping down her skin, only for the sensation to settle right between her shoulder blades as an itch. She reached back and scratched the skin there.

“What’s wrong?” He peered at the look of consternation on her face, the corners of his eyes crinkling at the sight of her nose, wrinkled in thought..

“I…” Tendril of hair whipped across her face as she shook her head. “I just realized that’s the first time I said that aloud. I’ve known for awhile that I would never leave Thedas, but I suppose that I always held out some kind of hope that I might find a way, but… Too much time has passed, too much has changed. I’ve changed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You apologize an awful lot for things that are not your fault, Your Majesty,” she grinned over at him.

“I know, I know, I’m sorr- Wait! Agh!” 

A fit of giggles seized them both, Cassandra hissing at them both to keep it down as she turned another page in her book. “By the way,” Senaide thumbed another dagger out, “You’re welcome. I took the liberty of ordering the Commander into actual clothes instead of his furry tin can for the evening. Josephine’s been absolutely giddy with the prospect that he won’t be clunking around the hall.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he drawled wryly.

Pausing, she lowered the blade, her lips pursed in thought. “I like you, Alistair. And Cullen is my friend, probably one of my best. All I want is to see him, to see you both happy. Whatever I can do to make your time together here easier and more pleasant, I will. Plus,” she added with a smirk, “You’re not the only one who enjoys looking at him.”

“No, I meant you really shouldn’t have,” a groan slipped from his lips. “All I’m going to be doing is staring at him now, when I should be paying attention to Celene or another noble, and Maker, I’m going to start a civil war just because of the how distracting Cullen’s shoulders are in a fitted coat. Why did they make me king again?”

“Because you’re the best for the job, Your Majesty.”

“They really were that desperate, weren’t they?”

She just laughed, and threw another dagger.

***

Cobalt silk, embroidered with golden thread, swirled around her ankles, flaring out in a smooth arc that made her look as if she were clothed in liquid sapphires. The expanse of her shoulders and collarbones were left exposed along with the upper half of her back, the swell of her bosom pressing up against the sweetheart neckline in a way that left her feeling extremely conspicuous and vulnerable. Her hair had been carefully wrapped around iron rods that had been heated over the coals, only to pinned up in an elegant waterfall of curls that brushed against the nape of her neck. Senaide smiled to herself.

It was nice to get out of her armor and leathers for once, to feel like the woman she was underneath the mantle of Inquisitor. She had never been a particularly vain person, usually option to go barefaced and in jeans back home with her hair thrown up into a ponytail, but she still enjoyed dressing up for fun. A soft giggle rose in her chest.

“You look lovely, Your Worship.” Sliding the last pin in her hair, the servant stepped back and smiled. “And the dress shows off your soulmark so well. Not all of it, but just the top bit.”

“My what?” Senaide craned her neck around in the mirror, trying to get a look at her back. The maid held up a small hand mirror for her to see. 

There, just above the hem of her dress along her spine, nestled a cluster of dark swirls that she was certain had not been there the last time she saw her back. Although, when the last time she had looked at her back was, she could not say. Her eyes grew wide.

_I have a soulmark? That means… I have a soulmate? Soultwin, whatever they call it? God, I guess I really am Thedosian now. Or Maker. I should probably start saying Maker instead, shouldn’t I?_

_Who is it?_

“Inquisitor, are you- Oh! You look lovely!” Clattering up the staircase, Josephine gasped as she peeked over the marble banister at the sight Senaide in all her finery. “Everyone is waiting on you. You’ll enter first, and then the empress, and then the king. Do you remember all your cues?”

Still trying to examine more of her newly discovered mark, Senaide absently nodded, twisting to and fro. “I think so.”

“Excellent. We must hurry.”

She allowed herself to be led down the stairs, her mind hazy and churning. The sound of the crowd, their chatter muffling as the band struck up a regal march upon Josephine’s mark, drifted around her. A slight frown creased her brow.

“Inquisitor!” The ambassador’s hiss drew her back to the present. “Smile! And, go!”

There would be time enough to figure it out later. For now, she had a job to do. Straightening her marked spine, Senaide gracefully floated out to greet her guests.

The evening passed perfectly on schedule and without a single hitch. Senaide was the gracious host, standing before her throne and welcoming her guests, warm and proper and smiling all the while, until she was sure her face would be frozen like this forever. 

Fretting over seating arrangements and fearful over causing a slight to either monarch, Josephine had decided to forego the typical sit-down type meal affair, and opted for long buffet tables and servants to weave in and out of the crowd, bearing trays of little bites of various finger in an hors d’oeuvres style service. This left Senaide free to mingle with the nobility.

“My dear Inquisitor,” a man in a dawnstone studded silver mask that she was fairly certain was Duke Cyril de Montfort if her memory served swept her a bow, “Would you do me the honor of the first dance?”

Senaide glanced around, knowing that Alistair was supposed to have the first dance with her, but unsurprisingly, the man was nowhere to be found now that the formalities were over. And neither was Cullen. She resisted the urge to giggle like a teenage girl. _Well, I suppose Duke Prosper’s son is a good second choice_. “I’d be delighted, Your Grace.”

So intent was she on ensuring she did not misstep in the Game that the Orlesians were so fond of, that Senaide did not notice the king of Ferelden and the Commander slip back into the ballroom, every hair and lapel and sash smoothed perfectly back in place. Nor did she see Alistair’s jaw drop open as she twirled past them in the arms of the duke, or how pale Cullen’s skin blanched. And nor had she felt Leliana’s eyes on her all the while, since the moment she entered the room, those pale green orbs narrowed in suspicion at a spot just below her shoulderblades.

From duke to arl to marquis to bann, she was passed around the room until her feet were numb and aching and her head spinning with too much wine and not enough food. Breathlessly begging a moment before another overeager young lordling managed to claim her attention, Senaide briskly glided down the hall, snagged a handful of pastries, and disappeared into the garden and up the stairs to the battlements.

Cool, crisp air washed over her in a stiff breeze, drawing out a husky groan from her dry throat. Bracing her arms against the battlement wall, she stared down at the gardens below, watching couples sneaking off into the shadows with a hint of jealousy.

 _Although_ , her fingers brushed the hollow of her throat, _I have a soulmark. I have a person out there that’s the other half of my soul. I wonder what they’re like? Or where they are?_

“Inquisitor,” a familiar voice called out. “Escaping your adoring masses, are we?”

Turning, Senaide smiled at Alistair, Cullen not far behind on his heels, the latter looking decidedly uncomfortable in a navy velvet jacket trimmed with gold. It was similar in style to the one he had worn at Halamshiral that everyone had admired so much on him. The king was clothed in the colors of his house, the burgundy and gold complimenting his skin well. “A bit too much wine and not enough air, I think. I trust you two are enjoying yourself.”

Alistair shifted from one foot to the next, ducking his head away from her face and glanced at Cullen who offered them both a tight smile.

“Is something wrong?”

“What? No, no, everything’s peachy,” the king’s smile stretched a bit too wide to be entirely genuine. “Say, I didn’t know you had a soulmark.”

“Neither did I. We only noticed it today when I was dressing. I have no idea how long it’s been there. I don’t even know what it fully looks like,” she shrugged. “How do you even begin to start looking for your soultwin anyways? Or how can you tell once you’ve found them?”

“You’re- You’re drawn to them,” Cullen murmured. “Unable to get them off your mind. You keep seeking their company without realizing it, and when you’re with them, things just feel… right. Like you’re whole for the first time in your life.”

The men smiled at each other, lost in their own little world, and Senaide sighed, entranced by their love. “You want them to be happy, above all else. You’d do anything just to see them smile,” Alistair added. “Have you… ever felt like that?”

Pursing her lips, Senaide shrugged. She wasn’t about to admit that was how she felt about either of them. They were matched to each other and she, she had her own mate out there. So it was obvious that she was wrong. “I don’t think so.”

Cullen inched closer to her, a curious look in his dark eyes. “You have not seen your mark in full yet, you said?” She shook her head. “Do- Would you mind if I took a look for you?”

Her skirts flared as she whirled around. “Have at it, Commander.”

Dabbing at his brow with one sleeve, Cullen reached out with trembling fingers and gently traced the hem of her dress, skin grazing against warm skin. Alistair hovered just behind his shoulder. Neither of them dared to breathe as a shiver raced down her spine.

Steeling himself, Cullen tugged the silk down to expose her soulmark.

And his world crashed around his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has/had/will have a wonderful holiday season <3\. This chapter probably should've been 2 separate ones, but *shrugs*.


	11. Confusion Abounds

_Blowing his breath in a hiss from between his teeth, Alistair throws the parchment across his desk and lets his head fall into his hands. Maker, his country is a mess out there. Ever since the chantry exploded in Kirkwall, mages and templars have been fighting, first in the Circles, and now the chaos has spilled over into the bannorn and mountains and coastal regions. Every mage is an apostate, and there are no longer Circles to hold them, not after the uprising at the White Spire and the Lord Seeker severing the Chantry from both the mages and Seekers. Glancing over to his bookshelf, his eyes land on a small carved golem, a present from a mage he had once traveled with and held dear to his heart._

_“Maker watch over you, Wynne,” he murmurs. She was supposed to die in her bed, fulfilled and asleep, not on a cold stone floor in Orlais. Leliana’s letter said that her ashes had been buried up in Andorral’s Reach. Perhaps, after this mess was all sorted out, he would go there to pay his respects. Maybe bring her a sock. Darned, of course. He smiles a weary smile rich with memories._

_Cullen’s letters have become less and less frequent. After the rogue mage Anders killed the Grand Cleric and lit the city aflame with his revolution, the Knight-Captain had sided with the Champion of Kirkwall and stepped up to aid in ruling the city. Many reports have come out of the crumbling city, and they all say the Ferelden templar is the only thing holding them all together, that is he a fair and effective ruler. It is a feat that surprises no one except the templar himself._

_But the result is that his love has precious little time for his new duties, and even less to write to Alistair. He understands, of course, and has his own spies to update him to current events, but Maker, does he miss him._

_The latest correspondence from Leliana, or Sister Nightingale as she is now known, indicates that the Divine is holding a Conclave to mediate the mage-templar war in Haven, where he and Tabris and everyone had once discovered the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Leliana says the town does not resemble the dismal, utterly creepy cabal base it once did, now that it has become a pilgrimage sight and they all but slaughtered its inhabitants ten years ago, but Alistair isn’t quite convinced._

_“Inquisition,” he frowns down at yet another letter. The last one established the Chantry a thousand years ago. If this one comes to pass, what will happen? “Hell of a time to be king.” Leaning back in his chair, Alistair stares at the ceiling._

_“Your Majesty?” A tentative knock sounds at the door. “There’s a man here to see you, sire. He says he’s a commander, but no more.”_

_“A commander?” Alistair frowns. Is there to be an invasion? “Send him in.”_

_Moments later, the servant ushers in a startlingly familiar man. The king leaps up from his desk in the most undignified manner possible, tripping over the plush rug and his own feet on the way._

_“Cullen?!” He stares at the smirking man, his eyes running over every inch of his form. He looks worn and thin, more than likely due to the recent stresses upon him, unadorned armor clothes his body, and his unruly curls hair have been tamed and locked in a surprisingly stylish manner. “What- How- Guh?”_

_Cullen laughs, and crosses the room to envelope his love in his arms. “Articulate as ever, Your Majesty.” His warm, amber eyes dance with mischief. “I apologize for not warning you in advance, but I hoped to surprise you.”_

_“I’m more than just surprised. Flabbergasted, maybe? How are you here? Commander of what? What’s going on?”_

_Taking Alistair by the hand, Cullen leads him over to the plush chairs set before the roaring hearth, sits himself and down pulls the king down onto his lap, his lips nuzzling the crook of his neck. “You know about the Conclave the Divine is arranging? And the possibility of a new Inquisition?” Alistair nods. “Well, the Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast offered me a position within the Inquisition, should it see fruition, and the likelihood is very possible. I’m to be the Commander for its army.”_

_“Commander?” Alistair frowns. “What about the templars?”_

_Cullen leans back to rub his neck sheepishly. “I… left.”_

_“You left?!” Jerking back, Alistair tumbles out of Cullen’s lap and down onto the floor, his jaw hanging agape. “But- no one just leaves the Order! What about the lyrium?”_

_“I stopped taking it.” His voice is quiet, resolute, yet he does not meet Alistair’s gaze. Out of shame, or fear, he doesn’t know._

_“You stop-_ Cullen _.” Scrambling to his knees, Alistair presses forward and snatches up Cullen’s hands in his own, staring entreatingly upward. “The addiction and withdrawal, this could-”_

_“I know. I know love, but I-” His voice breaks. “I can’t. The things I condoned, the things the Order led me to believe, how much I hated- I can’t be a part of that anymore. You weren't there when Meredith was consumed by her anger and the red lyrium. If she- If I-" He swallows. "If I die, I want to have lived with honor. I want to try to atone for the sins I’ve committed, and I can’t see how to do that except to distance myself from the templars. I can do this. Please, Alistair, I…”_

_A resigned sigh escapes Alistair, and he leans forward to lay his head against Cullen’s thighs. And then looks up, his eyes set and determined. “What do you need?”_

_Cullen smiles in relief. “We came to Denerim to see if we could do some recruiting, nothing too intensive yet. The Seeker wished to ask for an audience with you to gain permission, when I convinced her to let me handle it.”_

_“Done,” Alistair waves his hand. “But what do_ you _need?”_

_“Me?” Cullen looks baffled by the question. “Nothing. I’m having a new set of armor commissioned, and everything else I might need for a journey and stay in Haven is provided.”_

_“Haven is cold. Colder than anything else I’ve ever felt.” A frown crosses Alistair’s face, then he leaps up onto his feet as inspiration strikes him. “I’ve got it! Come on.”_

_His hand wraps around the other’s, both of their skin calloused and rough from the years of swordplay. Ignoring the looks passing servants and nobles give them, the king pulls Cullen down the hallway and into his chambers, muttering under his breath as he digs through his wardrobe, throwing clothes about the room. He emerges with a triumphant noise, something clutched in one hand._

_“Here,” he thrusts the item at Cullen._

_“This is…” Cullen touches the russet colored fur, rich and soft. “This is from that red lion you killed? The one you wrote me about?”_

_“It is. I had the fur made into a surcoat of sorts,” he grins. “Nasty bugger, but no match for me, obviously.”_

_“You love this coat. You devoted two whole pages to telling me about that fight and how much you loved the fur. You swore you were going to have it made into a stuffed lion to sleep with,” Cullen snorted. “I can’t take this.”_

_“You can, and you will. King’s orders.” Alistair drapes the fur around Cullen’s neck, and nods. “Just as I suspected. It looks better on you anyways.”_

_“I… Thank you. It’s perfect.”_

_“That way you won’t be so cold,” his voice is soft and warm. “And you’ll think of me every time you put it on.”_

_Cullen gently reaches up to stroke Alistair’s cheek, leaning forward to brush his lips against his love’s. “I think of you every moment as it is. I’ve missed you so.”_

_“How long are you staying in Denerim?” Alistair asks, breathless._

_“A few days. Just long enough to resupply, and see about gathering more men.”_

_“You’ll stay here?”_

_A wicked grin curls at Cullen’s lips. “If my king commands, I can hardly refuse, can I?”_

*** 

Cullen forgot how to breathe. Behind him, Alistair’s own gasp barely registered. _That- That is-_

“Can you see it?”

Twisting around, Senaide frowned at her bare shoulder, arching as far back as possible to see if she could catch a glimpse. 

“I…” Alistair cleared his throat, his eyes shifting from Cullen to Senaide’s mark to his own arm. “It looks like a rose.”

“Oh! That’s pretty. I don’t suppose you’ve seen someone else with the same one? Wait, no. Don’t tell me. I’m not sure I’m ready to know yet. Cullen?” Turning, she peered up into the man’s face, biting one lip at the sight of his stony demeanor. “What’s wrong?”

He blinked.

Realizing his love was lost in his own mind, Alistair stepped in. “He’s-”

“Inquisitor!” Josephine’s voice rang out across the battlements. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Duke Cyril is looking for you again. You must come back now, with me.”

“Blast it,” Senaide grumbled. “Fine, I’m going. Alistair-”

“I’ve got him,” the king assured her with a smile. “Go be host. I’m just glad it’s not me this time.”

Stumbling forth as Josephine dragged her back down the stairs, Senaide shouted over one shoulder, “You’ll have to tell me all your best escape tips!”

“He most certainly will not! Honestly,” Josephine began to chide both leaders, then suddenly realized she was yelling at the king of Ferelden. “I mean, that is to say-”

Laughing, Alistair waves them both away, and the Antivan’s groans slowly fade into the night. He turned back to Cullen. The man was still standing there, frozen to the spot, his eyes vacant and distant. “Cullen? Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

Gently, he took the Commander’s elbow and slowly steered him across the ramparts and into his office, locking the door behind them. “She’s…” He managed to croak. “Her…”

“I know.” Alistair slumped against the doorframe. “It doesn’t mean-”

Cullen barked a harsh, grating laugh. “It means everything, Your Majesty. Her soulmark matches yours. She’s your soultwin now, not me.”

“It doesn’t mean you’re not anymore,” the king cut in angrily. “Remember what you told me? That you choose me, soulmark or no? Well, I choose you. I don’t care, Cullen, I love you and-”

“So, what? You’d just deny her her own soultwin as well? The brand, the brand,” he muttered, rubbing one hand over his ribs. “It has to be. It must have dissolved the mark over time.”

Alistair paled. “You don’t… love me anymore?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cullen snapped. “Of course I still love you, but maybe it’s just normal love. Maybe you could have more, with her. Maybe she-” His voice cracks. “Maybe she could make you happier.”

“Impossible.” Crossing the space between them with long, firm strides, Alistair shoved Cullen back into the wall, pinning him in place with a stare and his hands. “You make me delirious with how happy I am. Just the sight of you, even after all these years, sets the butterflies in my stomach off and the blood racing in my veins. It’s you, it’s still you, it will always be you. You’re still my soultwin, Cullen. I refuse to believe anything else.”

“Then how do you explain her?”

His arms lost the the strength to remain upright. Slumping, Alistair turned away from Cullen, tracing a line across the worn floor as he paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. Cullen merely watched from where he still stood propped up by the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“You said you felt something for her,” Alistair said after a few minutes of heavy silence. “That you wanted to kiss her.”

“She’s pretty,” Cullen shrugged. “And kind, honorable. Most of Skyhold is in love with her. It’s not surprising.”

“Yes, but you said you felt something. I did, when I kissed her. That sense of fitting, of it being right.” Pausing in his circuit of the office, Alistair looked up. “Kiss her. See what you feel. And we’ll go from there.”

“Kiss her?” His eyes widened, his arms falling to his side. “Just like that? What, am I supposed to walk up to her, maybe in the middle of the courtyard, and just kiss her?”

“Then we’ll tell her. Explain the situation, and-”

“I don’t want her to think she’s coming between us,” Cullen shook his head furiously. “She was adamant about that before, how she didn’t want to cause any enmity between us. I won’t have her feeling guilty just because I’ve lost my soulmark.”

“You have not lost your mark,” Alistair snarled. His dark eyes blazed as he advanced on Cullen, stomping across the floor with enough force that Cullen felt each step reverberating up his legs. One hand snaked up to tangle itself in blonde curls, and yanked. _Hard_. “You are still mine, and I am forever yours. So you can fucking stop this self-flagellation and martyr thing you have going on, because I am _not_ having it. We’re going to be Maker damned adults about this, and we’re going to talk to her like rational people, and we are going to _make this work_.”

Cullen couldn’t tear his eyes away from his love. Never before had he seen Alistair in the role of the king; he had always been the humorous, goofy boy around him, joking, more than willing to go with the flow of things. This man before him wasn’t his Alistair. This was the king of Ferelden making his knees buckle. Pain from the back of his neck, sweet and sharp, radiated down through his belly, into his groin, tendrils of heat curling through his body. He licked his lips. “Make this work? Do you mean… You, me, and…?”

“And her.” Alistair’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Would you like that, love? All three of us, tangled up in your bed? I know you’ve imagined how our lovely Senaide might sound, were you to taste her skin. How she would look, sitting atop your hips, that beautiful cock of yours stretching her open.” His fingers deftly popped the buttons open on Cullen’s jacket, nails raking down his chest to firmly cup at the bulge that was growing against his leg. He smiled as Cullen whimpered. “She has rather magnificent breasts, doesn’t she? Wouldn’t you like to take a bite? Feel her lips wrapped around your cock while I take her from behind? Those dark eyes of hers, staring up at you while-”

“Alistair, please,” he gasped.

“Please, what,” Alistair cooed. “Please go fetch Senaide? So you can tell her exactly what you feel for her?”

“I don’t know what I feel for her!” Shaking himself out of his lusty haze, Cullen shoved back against Alistair's chest and growled low in his throat. “That’s the entire problem! Should I just waltz up to her, and say that her mark is the same I once wore? That I’m not sure if you and I still soultwinned? Or should I tell her that you have the exact match upon your arm? That she might be twinned to two different people? Maker’s breath Alistair, can you imagine what she’d think?”

“ _Oh_.”

Both men froze at the small gasp, not daring to even look. Staring at each other still, Alistair and Cullen swallowed through the lump that had suddenly formed in their throats, choking the breath from their lungs. “S-Senaide?” Alistair finally managed after a few pregnant seconds. Cullen remained paralyzed and rooted to the spot and deathly pale.

“I, um…” Senaide’s eyes were wide, darting to every corner of the office and refusing to meet their faces. “Josephine was hoping you’d return to the ballroom, there’s apparently a marchioness from Orlais that you need to meet, or something. But this is a bad time, I’ll tell her-”

“No.” Alistair braced one arm against the wall, his back still turned to her, and breathed. _In, out_. “I’ll be there. H-How long were you standing there?”

He heard her fidget. Her shoes scuffed against the wooden floor. “...Long enough.”

Cullen, acutely aware of his disheveled, half-dressed state, could not for the life of him figure out the tone of her voice. Was she happy? Scared? Upset? Daring to lift his gaze, he tried to search her face to no avail. The shadows were too dark in here. “Inquisitor, I…”

“Um. We should talk.” She nodded to herself. “After the ball is over. And when we’re all sober. Tomorrow? I suppose after supper would be best. Unless you’re free in the morning. Or afternoon. The both of you, that is. Although I suppose both of you are busy. I think I’m busy, too. I’d have to check the schedule on my desk. Or ask Josephine. She’d probably know, and I’m just rambling now, so I’m going to go. Okay. Um. I’ll tell Josie you’re on your way.” Ducking her chin to her chest, Senaide flew out the door in a rustle of silk, the moonlight skimming over her back, illuminating the tip of her mark for just a second suspended in time. Then she was gone.

Leaving the two men in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late warning to new readers, I am inordinately fond of cliffhangers. I apologize.


	12. To Contemplate

Never before had Alistair appreciated his aides more than he did today. Lost in his own thoughts, the king barely heard the discussion about the taxes on ale, soap, and spidersilk that the countries were to establish in the near future, offering nothing more than a nod of his head whenever it was absolutely necessary. Wesley would condense the meeting in his normal acute manner, and deliver to his king a list of the important points later.

Senaide’s face haunted him, him and Cullen both. The way she sprinted out of the office last night, how she avoided both of them entirely this morning- Maker, of all the ways for her to have found out, it had to have happened in the most jarring, crude manner possible. What she must think of them…

Begging leave of the lunch that Josephine had scheduled for him along with a few of the visiting nobility from Nevarra with the excuse of a headache, Alistair took a few bits from the tray a servant had brought him and tied it up in a napkin, and stuffed it in his pocket. His room was too stuffy, too confining this afternoon. He need space, air, and somewhere to think alone for a bit.

The ramparts were wide open, and any solace he might have found high up above Skyhold would have tarnished by the constant rotation of people that milled around the battlements. So he decided to go down. This door led to the kitchens, and that one, the servant’s quarters, and yet another, into the armory, but finally, Alistair found a set of staircases that led to nowhere, or so it seemed.

Pushing the door open, the wood heavier than the rest, he found himself in a brightly lit room lined with cells, all of them empty, save one where a man lay curled up on his side. He hadn’t even realized Skyhold had dungeons. A low rumbling echoed off the walls.

“Your Majesty,” a lone guard at the end of the room saluted him. “‘E’s just sleeping off last night’s drink. Tried to start a brawl in the tavern. Did you need something, sire?”

“Ah, no, sorry,” Alistair rubbed his neck sheepishly. It was a habit he had picked up from Cullen years ago. “I was just looking for a place to, um…”

“Hide?” The woman smiled sympathetically. “No one goes back there,” she jerked a thumb towards the back wall, where two arches led into what he had thought were more cells. “Nice view. Though I wouldn’t recommend getting too close to the edge. The carpenters shored up some of scaffolding, but still. If you fall, it’s a long way down.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, and headed to where she pointed. The muted sound he had heard upon entering grew louder as he walked, and soon Alistair found himself on a ledge set behind a roaring waterfall that fell from somewhere above him, the entire open room flooded with bright sunlight that refracted off the water into tiny brilliant rainbows. It was lovely, and exactly what he had been searching for.

The cells here were still mostly damaged, but he could tell where freshly carved stone had replaced crumbling sections of the walls, and the fresh lumber supports still had the scent of sweet sap that lingered behind. Settling himself against a wall, far enough away from the edge, Alistair took out his food.

It seemed like everything in his life had been spiraling out of control for months now. Years, if he really thought about it. Cullen was the only person who ever asked what he, as Alistair, wanted, and treated him as just a regular human. Senaide, too. The week she had been in Denerim, playing the coy noblelady, was the first time that he had felt so light and unfettered by his title and responsibilities and utterly at home in his own palace.

But to love the Inquisitor? He shook his head, and tore off a bit of his bread. Loving the Commander of the Inquisitor was hard enough. All those times he had thought Cullen was surely dead. Kinloch, the Qunari invasion in Kirkwall, the explosion of the Chantry, the explosion of the Conclave, the avalanche that buried Haven. And what would both of them have to face still before Corypheus could be defeated? Senaide would have to face the ancient magister himself, along with his blighted archdemon, and-

He scrubbed at his face with one hand. At least Cullen was relatively safe as long as he was confined to Skyhold. But his love had mentioned that he was closing in on Samson’s base, that former brother-in-arms of his that had become the Elder One’s general. And Cullen intended to go himself, along with Senaide. And, as always, Alistair would be in his palace, alone and waiting on whatever scrap of news he could get. Leliana was good about sending him a raven as soon as she herself got word, but still. Days could go by, and he would not know of any calamity that befell them until it was possibly too late.

_No, I can’t think like that. Cullen’s survived through everything so far. He’s a warrior, skilled and knowledgeable. And Senaide- Well, she’s stubborn. Determined. And she has good people with her. That scary Seeker, and that massive Qunari. Varric. He saved my ass more than a few times when we were in the Imperium and the Tellari Swamps together. She’s in good hands. They’ll both get through this. They have to._

_Maker save me._

Soulmark or not, Alistair knew he was in love with her. He could feel the ties that drew them together, know that he knew it for what it was. To be honest, he had known since the moment he laid eyes on her. But his love for Cullen was as he told her. Undiminished after all these years. _Three people with one bond? There’s not even a way to prove it, since Cullen’s been branded. But I know that’s what’s happened. Somehow, we’ve all been marked together. The question is- how do I convince Cullen and Senaide both? We could be happy together, all of us._

_Couldn’t we?_

“There you are. I thought I might find you here.”

Alistair didn’t bother looking up to see who it was; Leliana’s lilting accent was discernible even through the roar of the falls crashing onto the boulders below. “You thought you’d find me in the dungeons? That’s rather morbid, don’t you think?”

Sand ground into the stone as she arranged her long limbs beside him, reaching over his lap to pluck a few berries from his hand. Deftly avoiding the swipe of his hand, she popped them into her mouth and smiled. “No, I meant by the water. It’s where we could always find you when we camped and you needed time to yourself. By a river, or a pond. The days where we weren’t able to camp near water, you were always unbearable to be around.”

“Was I really? Huh. I never realized.” He shifted the rest of his lunch a few inches behind him, ignoring her giggle. “So what did you need me for?”

“I was planning on asking you that. Something on your mind? A certain Inquisitor and Commander, perhaps?”

“Of course you know,” he grumbled under his breath. “You and your creepy spies everywhere.”

Shaking her head, she sighed. “Alistair. I traveled with you for over a year and saw your mark almost every day. And I was there last night and saw the upper bit of the Inquisitor’s.” Leliana paused, and smirked ever so slightly. “I wasn’t sure if it was just similar, but judging by how Cullen is floating about like a wraith and acting like it’s the end of the world, moreso than he did when we were certain that it _was_ the end of the world, and how you are hiding in the dungeons, and how Senaide has also ensconced herself in her room and is refusing to see anyone today, I hazarded a guess that hers is a match.”

“It is,” came the mumbled response.

“Then why are you all acting like it’s the worst thing to ever happen?”

“Cullen’s brand,” he reminded her. “We know that Senaide’s and mine are a match, but Cullen… He’s convinced that the brand has eradicated his own mark. And that he’s no longer in the equation. Do you know? What happens to a soulmark after it’s branded over?” Alistair peered over at her, taking in the way she sat with her gaze fixated on the distant horizon, chewing on her lower lip the way she often did when she was deep in thought. “I mean, you were the Divine’s Left Hand. If anyone knows…”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I don’t know. Soulmarks are not often spoke of, if at all, after any of us have taken our vows. But what I can tell you is that what I feel for Tabris has not diminished even after all the years and distance between us.” One slender hand fiddled idly with a little golden disc engraved with a feather around her neck. Alistair recognized it as the one Tabris had given Leliana not long after they had admitted their feelings for each other. “So I don’t think my own soulmark has been nullified, or whatever the pair of you are thinking. Have you all talked to each other yet, or are you taking your usual tactic to ignore everything until it hopefully goes away?”

“Ha ha,” he scowled. “No, we haven’t had a chance to talk yet. Senaide wanted us to come to her room tonight after supper to- to talk.”

“Ah, yes. She would be the most level-headed between the three of you,” Leliana nodded sagely. “I’m sure it will all work out.”

“But three of us?”

Leliana glanced at him. “Do you believe the Maker sent us Senaide?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” he confessed. “I mean, it seems like it sometimes, but doesn’t the Chantry say He left us?”

“Just because He left us does not mean He still does not care. When we needed a leader the most, a woman appeared. A woman who thwarted Corypheus’ plot and survived the Conclave, a woman who was pulled from another world and willingly has put her own life on the line to help a different world that she has no allegiance to. She treats everyone the same, from the youngest beggar on the streets to the Empress and your royal self.”

“Like a friend,” Alistair nodded. “When you put it like that… I dunno. What does that have to do with anything?”

“If the Maker sent Senaide to save us, perhaps,” Leliana smiled, “Perhaps He wanted to ensure that she would have someone to take care of her as well. Perhaps there is a reason that she is soultwinned to the two most relentless, pig-headed-"

"Hey!"

"-caring men I know," she ignored his protest. "And this nonsense of Cullen’s soulmark disappearing. I mean really, Alistair. The two of you are just as hopelessly devoted to one another now as you were ten years ago. And even if something did happen to his mark, it doesn’t mean he can’t love you or Senaide, or vice versa. I’ve seen the way he watches her.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him. Not like he listened, or anything. Maybe you should tell him,” he grumbled. Stuffing the last bite of his lunch into his mouth, he shook the crumbs off his napkin and carefully folded the linen square before shoving it into a pocket.

“He would not appreciate it from me, I think. But maybe you and Senaide can convince him, yes?” Leliana rose to her feet and gently patted Alistair on his head, laughing as he tried to protect his hair from her hands. “Don’t worry, you’re still pretty, Your Majesty,” she teased.

“Of course I am,” he scoffed, then sobered a bit and nodded. “Tonight. I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure that will more than sufficient. But please don’t tarry. He and Senaide are planning a mission to northern Orlais soon, and they both need their heads on right for that.”

“Tonight,” Alistair repeated. “And then we’ll see.”

***

It took all of her willpower to slip into her role as Inquisitor tonight. Dressed in a simple pair of leggings and tunic, albeit of fine cut and material, Senaide plastered on her best neutral smile and absently nodded her way through the supper with Duke Prosper and a few other nobles. The empress had elected to take her meal in her own rooms tonight, as had the king.

Senaide tried not to think about him, or Cullen. She had barely seen either all day; Alistair had begged off the talks with the excuse of a headache, and Cullen had confined himself to his office as soon as the dawn drills concluded. A million things ran through her head, but she could not for the life of her pinpoint a single coherent thought.

The scene from last night replayed itself over and over again until it was all she could see. She had knocked, but no one had answered, so she thought she would just poke her head in, just in case they were otherwise engaged. Moonlight shone on their forms, pressed up against the wall through the narrow windows, and blushing, she had thought to retreat. Until she heard her name.

_“I know you’ve imagined how our lovely Senaide might sound.”_

They were talking about her. And all the things Cullen- they?- wanted to do to her. _Her._

Cullen’s next words ripped the breath from her very lungs, the strength from her knees. He said- Her mark was a match for Alistair’s. But if she matched his, then why wouldn’t she be a match for Cullen as well? They were soultwinned, weren’t they? _The mark that he once wore_ , he said. Do soulmarks fade? Or change? That would be confusing. And rather cruel. 

It was obvious that they all needed to talk. But the idea of having two soulmates, that a mark on her back would bind her to two men, one that she barely knew… Wasn’t love a choice? Was love here predetermined?

Then again, if she was being honest with herself, she had fallen for Cullen a long, long time ago. Within the first few months at Haven. All those times he drew her aside when she returned from a journey to the Hinterlands, and she had been trying to put on a brave face for all the people who believed her to be a herald for their god when in reality, she had been shaken to her core to witness all that death and chaos. Cullen had been the only who inquired after her mental state, telling her he knew what scars battle could leave on a person. And more than once, he had found her down by the frozen lake, shivering in the pale moonlight after a nightmare had chased her from her warm cabin, and held her as she sobbed into his chest. It was true. She already loved Cullen. But what did she feel for Alistair? Senaide had never believed in the love at first sight trope. Love took time, effort, and communication. But she wasn’t on Earth anymore, where things like soulmarks did not exist. Had she fallen in love with Alistair and just didn't know it yet?

Sighing, she wearily trudged up the endless flights of stairs to her lonely room at the top of the tower, the wood faintly creaking with each step, and pushed the door to her room open. No, she wasn’t in love with Alistair. There was undoubtedly a physical attraction that they both felt, and she enjoyed his company, especially that easy wit and charm that rolled off his tongue so well, but that wasn’t love. 

And Cassandra. The woman swore she didn’t love Varric, and as far as Senaide knew, the Seeker was still actively avoiding the dwarf. So did that mean having a soulmark didn’t necessarily guarantee love? _Ugh. There’s still so much I don’t know. Do souls from Thedas and Earth even come from the same place? If each pair of soultwins starts out as one person… Wait. Is that why I’m paired with two others? Since my soul is an extra piece? But why would I have one anyways? Why did it appear? How did it appear?_

So many questions and she wasn’t sure she was ready for all the answers. 

Crossing her room, Senaide pulled the pins out of her fancy updo and shook out her msss of obsidian waves, lightly massaging her scalp as she combed out the tangles. The boots were kicked off next, but for now, she left on the leggings and tunic, opting to just swaddle herself in a thick robe. She poured herself a hefty serving of wine and curled up on her sofa. All she had to do now was wait on them. If they even came. Would they?

 _I never waited for them to answer_ , she realized in horror as the minutes ticked by. _I just told them, basically ordered them to come talk to me. Gods, that’s a fan-fucking-tastic way to start a relationship, if we ever even get there. Hi, we need to talk, do this now or else. They’re not going to come. I’m such an idiot._

Draining her glass, Senaide flopped down over the edge of the couch and stared upside down into the fire. Only to tumble head over heels onto the floor at the sound of a scuffle behind her door, followed by a knock.

“Come in,” she squeaked as she valiantly attempted to untangle her limbs from the blanket and set herself upright.

“Inq- Senaide?” Alistair’s head popped above the banister, his eyes searching the room before he found her still on the floor, still struggling to sit up. “...Are you alright?”

“Yes! Fine, I’m just- Having issues,” she sighed as she pulled herself back onto the couch. “Is it just you, or…?”

A few seconds passed, and Alistair turned back expectantly, jerking his head toward the landing. Cullen, his movements stiff, with an expression eerily reminiscent of a man being led to the gallows, slowly plodded up the steps behind him. “Hello,” he murmured softly.

“Hi,” Senaide’s smile shook a bit as she gazed at them both. “Please, sit. Wine?”

“Please,” Alistair and Cullen both nodded. “Ah. So. We need to talk.”

“Yes. We do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these idiots are doing a lot more thinking than I anticipated. WILL THEY EVER TALK???


	13. To Choose

The soft pop of the cork was almost deafening. Pouring a healthy measure of wine in two glasses, Senaide paused, then added more to each and topped off her own. She had a feeling they would all need it. The wine sloshed a bit as she passed the glasses over to both men, averting her gaze off to the side. It seemed too much to look at either of them at the moment. Lifting her own cup, she took a large gulp.

“So,” she sat down on her couch, still staring down the floor. “My soulmark. It’s the same as both of yours?”

Cullen shifted in his seat, and scowled down at nothing in particular. “It’s the same as Alistair’s, yes. As for me-”

“We’ve been over this, Cullen,” Alistair cut in rather testily. “Just because yours has been branded over, doesn’t mean the bond was broken.”

“There’s never been three with the same mark,” Cullen bit back. “It’s the only reasonable explanation.”

“Never been three that’s been recorded, or openly talked about. There could very well have been multiple people with the same mark at the same time,” countered Alistair. 

“You don’t think you’re bound to Alistair anymore?” Senaide cautiously lifted her gaze. Just a few steps way, Cullen sat hunched over with his elbows on his knees, his hair tousled from too much handling and falling into his face. He looked miserable.

“No, that’s not-” He blew out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

They all sat in a silence for a few moments. Only the crackle of the logs in the hearth and a faint rattle of the windows from the wind outside disturbed their gloom. Taking another sip of her wine, Senaide inhaled a deep lungful of air and gathered her courage.

“Do you love Cullen?”

Alistair jerked his head up. “Of course.”

“And Cullen, do you love Alistair?”

“Always,” came the quiet answer.

“Then why should it matter if you’re still soultwinned or bound or whatever?”

“Because,” Cullen’s voice dropped so low they both had to strain to hear him. “If yours is the real bond, then I…”

“You’re worried about being cast aside,” Senaide realized.

He nodded, his shoulders slumping even further. Beside him, Alistair visibly tensed, emotions warring within his eyes- fear, denial, near despair. Senaide frowned.

“Do you remember when I first arrived?” Cullen nodded again. “I didn’t know anything. How to fight with a weapon, how to fletch my arrows, how to take care of my armor, how to hunt and clean whatever poor innocent creature I killed for my meal.” He smiled at that. He recalled how he took her into the woods to show her how to hunt, and how she had teared up when she had managed to shoot a nug. The Herald had rushed the wounded creature back to Haven so that she and Leliana could nurse it back to health, to Cullen’s utter bafflement. 

“It was the last time you hunted, was it not?”

“It was,” she bit her hip to hide her own smile. “I let the others handle that part afterwards. But my point is, you were the one who helped me with everything. You taught me how to survive here. If not for you, I would probably have died ten times over. It was your brutal training regimen that gave me the strength and endurance I needed to fight, although at the time I thought it was just because you hated me. Don’t look at me like that, you argued every single thing I did.” Cullen reached up to awkwardly rub at the back of his neck. “But,” she continued, “It was also your encouragement that kept me on my feet and moving every time I wanted to curl into a ball and just give up. You were one of the only ones to ask after me, to really see me. Just Senaide,” she murmured, thinking of those nights he let her cry into his chest after a nightmare out in the frozen darkness. “Everyone else only saw the Herald. But you… Cullen.” Slipping from her chair, she kneeled on the rug at his feet. “It makes sense that I feel for you the way I do.” His eyes widened at that. “I’m more concerned- No, that’s not the right word. Perplexed? Ponderous? Something,” she frowned, turning over words inside her mind. “Something over how I’m supposed to be destined to love a man I barely know. No offense to you, Alistair.”

“None taken,” he waved it away.

“I grew up in a place without soulmarks, or destinies, or whatever else Thedas has. Anyone you loved, it was because you chose to love them. The idea that I’m supposed to love someone just because of a mark is… disconcerting.” Senaide glanced up at Alistair.

“It’s still a choice,” the king said softly. “Just because you share a mark, doesn’t mean you have love someone. And it doesn’t have to be romantic love either. Some soultwinned pairs share a love that’s more akin to siblings, or bosom buddies, I guess would be the term. Others reject their soultwin outright. I- We chose to love one another. Do you remember?”

Cullen stared at his lover as if he had lost his mind. “Of course I remember. How could I ever forget that day?”

Alistair’s skin creased along the well-worn wrinkles around his eyes as he smiled. “It’s a choice. You don’t have to love either of us. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Senaide. But if you do, I’d be willing to try.”

Drawing into herself, Senaide wrapped her arms around her knees. “And you, Cullen?”

He let out a long, slow breath of air. “I… If you and I are not truly soultwinned, I would not want you to resent me if we do attempt some sort of… relationship between the three of us.”

“That wouldn’t happen. I would walk away first. I told Alistair this, but I want you to know, too.” She lifted her gaze to stare straight into his. Her fingers gripped almost painfully into the leather-clad skin just above her knees, as if it were her tether to prevent her from drowning in the warm darkness of his eyes. “I just want you to be happy. Whatever that takes.”

“Senaide…”

“Is there a way to tell if two people are soultwinned? I mean, besides the obvious sharing a mark thing?” 

Alistair answered her first. “Not that I know of. I suggested to Cullen that he kiss you.” Both the Inquisitor and her Commander flushed at that, much to his amusement. “It’s not a foolproof way, but I noticed when I kissed you back in Denerim, that I felt much the same as I did when I kiss Cullen. The sense of a puzzle piece sliding into place, like I found a piece of myself I didn’t even realize was missing. That’s why I ran from you. It’s not supposed to feel like that once you’ve found your soulmate. I was scared, and confused. But it makes sense now. You and I are linked. As are you,” he glared over at Cullen before the other could descend once more into his morose musings.

Turning her head back around, Senaide glanced up at Cullen from where she still kneeled on the rug beside him. “So, I just kiss you? And you tell me what you feel?”

‘I…” Cullen burned a bright red at the very thought. Then, a memory tugged at the edge of his mind. “You said something earlier. That it made sense for you to feel the way you did about me. What did you mean?”

Icy tendrils snaked down her arms, freezing her in place, unable to even blink. Eyes the color of whiskey burned a path straight through her heart, and she was flayed open for all to see.

_Tell him._

_But what if he doesn’t feel the same? What if he’s saying all this because he doesn’t love you? Is he just trying to create a way out for himself?_

_Tell him._

Breathing in, she held that gasp of air in her lungs long enough that her chest began to ache. “I…” She exhaled. “I love you. And soulmark or not, I choose you. Both of you,” she added hastily, glancing over towards Alistair who sat intently watching them both. “I want to see where this goes. I can’t imagine my life without you, Cullen, and nor do I want to. And now, with what I know of you,” she smiled back over at Alistair, “I want to find out more. I choose both of you. If you’ll have me.”

No one spoke. Senaide was sure they could both hear her heart, hammering against her ribs. The sound of her blood roaring in her head drowned everything else out. Alistair sat there, wearing the faintest smile on his lips, while Cullen simply stared, one vein in his temple twitching in time with his pulse. Then-

“You’re sure?” Cullen rasped. She nodded.

One second he was still fixated upon her, his shoulders straining with every ragged breath he took, and the next, he was on the floor next to her, his firm arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his lips sealed over hers. She couldn’t think, couldn’t form a coherent thought. The only thing that crossed her mind was, _This must be what they were talking about._

A sense of belonging. Home.

Senaide breathed a soft moan as her fingers snaked into his hair and tugged him closer, both of them tumbling down onto the soft rug, heedless of anything but the feel of each other. Calloused hands swept up her arched spine, tangling into her own hair, pressing her chest into his, his body covering hers. 

“Senaide,” he gasped when they finally broke apart. Keeping their foreheads pressed together, he rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. “Maker’s breath, but you’re beautiful.” 

Eyes the exact shade of emeralds sparkled with joy, for him. Soulmark or not, she was here, with him, wanting him. And Alistair was-

Still sitting on the couch, smirking at them both with that damnable smug look on his face. “Well?” he drawled when they both glanced up. “Forgot about me, did you?”

“Never.” Grinning, Cullen reached up to take his arm, and yanked, hard. The king lurched off the sofa with a yelp and collapsed on top of Senaide and Cullen both, the Inquisitor erupting in wheezes and giggles.

“I have far too many people on my lungs right now,” she rasped. Inhaling a deep breath as the men scrambled off of her, Senaide pushed herself up onto her hands. Her cheeks flushed pink with the appraisal of the others. “That was...”

“Preeminent? Epochal? Prodigious? Exuberant?”

“His Majesty likes to spout off large words,” Cullen snorted. “It makes him feel important.”

“I am important,” Alistair protested. “You told me so.”

Leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek, Cullen chuckled. “So I did.”

Shyly glancing over at Senaide, Alistair held out one hand. “Um. I don’t suppose it would be too much to ask you for a kiss as well, would it?”

“Only if you promise not to run from me this time,” she teased.

“Pinky promise. No more running.”

Senaide was struck by a sudden timidness as she lifted herself up onto her knees and shuffled over to the king. Taking his still outstretched hand, she stared a space just above his collarbone, appearing to be entranced by the flicker of his pulse in the hollow of his neck. _I’ve kissed him before_ , she chided herself. But this… this felt different. 

_I choose this. Because I want this. I want them._

Lifting her eyes, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Alistair’s face, forever patient and tender. Her finger trailed down the bridge of his nose, over his lips, full and even softer than Cullen’s from the lack of exposure to the harsh elements. Just another inch closer, and she met his kiss with a sigh, her fingers clutching his shirt as he deftly flipped them both and pressed her back into the rug.

She could feel the trail of heat his hands left as they swept down her body and gripped the back of her thigh, the other sneaking under her shirt to caress the soft skin of her sides. A strained giggle slipped through her lips. A fatal mistake.

“Why, Inquisitor,” Alistair cocked one eyebrow up and looked down at her. “You aren’t ticklish, are you?”

Senaide scrambled up to sit and glared in warning at both of them, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Cullen smirking impishly at her.. “Don’t you _dare_. Either of you.”

Both men glanced at each other and grinned. With a shriek, Senaide shot to her feet and sprinted across her room, laughing as a heavy weight caught her about the waist and threw her onto the bed, strong arms cradling her as she fell.

“No no no,” she managed to gasp between giggles, “Mercy, please?”

Chuckling, Cullen relented his attack but did not shift his body off of hers, yet took care to ensure that the bulk of his weight was not crushing her. One hand tentatively traced the lines of her curves, hesitating as it reached her hip. Amber eyes filled with fire and clouded with lust locked onto hers. “Yes?” he whispered.

She inhaled, and shuddered. “Yes.”

Their lips crashed together with a groan, messy and unrestrained, their titles and hesitance falling away with every little sigh. Senaide was vaguely aware of her shirt being tugged free, and she willingly obliged and lifted her arms so the fabric could be removed.

“So beautiful,” she heard Alistair murmur from just behind her. Warm hands gently pushed her up to sit, and a firm body slid into place to cradle her back against his chest and to trail hot kisses down the column of her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. A muffled groan escaped him as she gave her hips an experimental wiggle, grinding against his rising erection. And all the while, Cullen’s lips never left hers. A soft whine left her throat, her fingers plucking at his tunic. “I think our lady is protesting your still clothed state,” Alistair chuckled.

Breaking free, Cullen glanced down. “Oh.” Alistair had already stripped to his smalls and was leaning back against the headboard, Senaide resting against his chest, wearing only her breastband and leggings. Sitting back on his knees, Cullen watched hungrily while he ripped off his own clothing as Alistair helped her shimmy out of her pants, hooking his feet into the waist to shove the offending barrier off, exposing the tanned, toned skin underneath. Her breastband was tossed to the side. She was a vision, with her chest slightly heaving, and a warm flush darkening her full breasts. Throwing his smalls over the edge of the bed, he smirked at the sight of her face, her eyes widening with a sharp inhale. The absolute hunger in both her and Alistair’s gaze was almost enough to undo him.

“Isn’t he gorgeous,” the king murmured softly into her ear. Unable to form a coherent response, Senaide simply nodded, her head lolling back against Alistair’s chest as Cullen began nibbling at the sensitive skin of her thighs.

His self control was slipping. Nuzzling the juncture of her thigh and hip, Cullen breathed in deep of her sweet musk, and cracked. Lips and tongue fell upon her, diving in like a man starved for her taste. Arms wrapped under her legs, fingers splayed across her abdomen, pinning her in place. His eyes narrowed as he watched her and Alistair, his lover’s fingers deftly teasing her dark nipples, pinching and twisting until the peaks were swollen and rosy from his attentions.

Grinding his own throbbing erection against the cleft of her ass, Alistair sought whatever meager relief he could while he watched Cullen’s talented tongue swirl around her folds. The noise radiating from the pair of them made him faint in the head. The soft gasps and moans, her breathy pleas, Cullen’s name falling from her mouth like a prayer, the sinful sounds from his tongue and her drenched heat had Alistair fighting back a whimper of his own. He needed-

"Come for us, sweetheart,” he murmured, husky and low into her ear. “Let us feel you undone, Senaide, come for us.”

With a sharp cry, her spine stiffened at the electric wave that raced through her veins, all of the heat that had been building exploding into her center. Cullen groaned at the rush of her pleasure, languidly coating his tongue in her nectar and gently held her through her climax until she lay limp in Alistair’s arms.

Rising, Cullen smirked down at the sight, his grin smug and feral. Senaide offered him a weak smile in return. “That was…”

“No,” Cullen reached up to cover Alistair’s mouth with his hand, stopping the flow of embellished adjectives before the king could start. Shaking his head, he climbed up Senaide’s body, and pulled Alistair into a deep kiss. “Doesn’t she taste so sweet?”

“Maker, yes,” Alistair gasped. Grabbing her waist, he pulled her up and pressed her forward, sitting up a bit as she settled onto her hands and knees. Glancing over her shoulder, she shot him a wink, and wiggled her hips.

“Are you just going to stare at me?”

Chuckling, Alistair traced one finger down her slick seam, smirking as she shivered under his feathery light touch. “For a moment. Don’t you have something better to do than talk, Inquisitor?”

Her head swiveled back around to the front, only to be met with a thick, weeping cock of a furious shade of purple a handsbreadth away from her face. Senaide swallowed, and leaned forward. Gently, delicately, she swirled her tongue around his head, savoring the tang of his precum and the way Cullen clenched his fists by his side. Then, she leaned forward. 

The length of his shaft filling her throat muffled her scream as Alistair slammed into her from behind, his cock forcing her body to stretch and accommodate his girth without any preparation.

“Oh, shit, I didn’t- Senaide, are you alright?” he gasped. “Maker, I didn’t-”

Reaching behind her, she grabbed his hand that was gripping her side, and squeezed it reassuringly. The sting was already fading into a pleasurable burn and a heavy fullness, and all she wanted him to do was _move_.

It was a new rhythm, but one they settled into with startling ease. Push and pull, suck and flick, grind and squeeze. Cullen’s fingers tangled into Senaide’s loose wavy locks, mesmerized by the way her body accepted both of their cocks so well, entranced by Alistair’s face, lost in bliss. One calloused hand left her hair and traced the lines of her mark, identical to the king's. The awkwardness he had expected and the hesitance he had experienced were no longer there, replaced by a comforting sense of togetherness. A homecoming.

Her hand joined her lips, stroking him with just enough pressure, twisting over his sensitive head before descending once more. Cullen’s hands tightened in her hair, and yanked. “Senaide, I can’t- I’m going to come if you don’t stop that.” A pleased hum that vibrated through his length and down into his aching balls was all the warning he had before she renewed her efforts with boundless enthusiasm. 

A hoarse cry erupted from his lips as his end crashed down on him, hot, creamy spurts of seed filling her mouth. And Maker’s breath, she swallowed it all, devouring him as if he were the tastiest treat she had ever had.

Alistair slipped one hand in front of Senaide, his fingers seeking her swollen pearl. “Fuck,” his breath was ragged and strained. “I’m not going to last after that, Senaide, can you come again? I need you to come again. Just like that, come on.”

Slender fingers dug into Cullen’s thighs, leaving indents that would no doubt leave a mark come tomorrow. Her mouth dropped open on a wordless scream, and she broke for the second time that night, sobbing her release. One, two more thrusts, and Alistair came with a strangled shout, withdrawing at the very last second to coat her back in his spend. They all collapsed onto the bed, sweaty and sticky, wearing matching smiles that shook with the force of their exhausted passion.

Her limbs felt weightless, almost as if she were floating. Someone got up at some point to fetch a rag, the rough cloth scraping against her back and legs, before settling back down on the mattress. “Senaide,” she heard Cullen’s voice calling her.

“Mm.” Eyes sealed shut, her hands searched the covers until they found Alistair’s, one pulling him close, the other held out for Cullen. “Talk tomorrow. Sleep now. Both of you.”

A chuckle rumbled in Alistair’s chest as he complied, and snuggled down under the blanket, tucking her figure to his chest. Behind her, Cullen tucked his body against her back. “I love you,” he whispered. “Both of you.”

A light snore was all the response he got from his Inquisitor. Alistair just laughed, happy and free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got stuck on this forever, and I'm not 100% thrilled with this, but eh. It's not going to get any better right now lol. I hope it's not too bad. <3


End file.
